


long way from home.

by gavinsaleks (ohmaggies)



Category: The Creatures | Cow Chop RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Fake Chop Except James Is a Regular Guy Who Falls In Love With (Some) Of Them, James-centric, M/M, References to Depression, ot3 endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:59:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmaggies/pseuds/gavinsaleks
Summary: 'James got the first train to Los Santos, staring the whole ride at the address for the city printed in blackened block letters, his heart uneasy in his chest. He had a small, salary job with the local city newspaper waiting for him, and a shitty place near too much traffic for him to be comfortable with, Joe’s letter tucked into the back of his mind, and one thought going through his mind:What have you gotten yourself into this time, Joe?'*after his friend goes missing, budding journalist james moves to the city to find him. amidst his own personal struggles and gangs wreaking havoc, he finds an unlikely home amongst the streets, and its strays.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a small project i've been working on since new year's day!! i'm super excited to finally put this up and share it with you all and i hope you like it! this is mostly james/trevor-centric but ch2 is james/aleks and ch3 is an epilogue with j/t/a. plus the storyline with joe gets resolved eventually. i just wanted the first chapter as a nice build-up for everything to come. 
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> \- rachel.

* * *

 

 

**_prologue._ **

 

*

 

Joe is missing.

James hasn’t seen him in almost half a year, since Joe took another job and packed his stuff, and James woke up to nothing more than a note saying he would send James rent money for the next three months.

It was hard to get used to life without him after years of getting familiar with his presence, and it was near unbearable to stay in that small apartment knowing it wasn’t Joe’s anymore. That it never would be again, because he was gone and not coming back, and James would have to try and occupy an empty space he could never fill on his own.

He had to move, somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t here.

The letter he got from Joe was good initiative; ‘ _need help, come find me_ ’ scribbled on a postcard that James found slid under his door a few weeks before moving. His blood ran cold, focusing too harsh on the signature clumsy under the words, and didn’t even wait for his contract with his landlord to be finished, just packed his things and left the rent money in a manilla folder on the kitchen bench.

There weren’t a lot of jobs going in Los Santos but James found one with decent pay, took his few belongings, his toothbrush, and all his savings, and started the move halfway across the country to live in a cheap place on the corner across from a failing Chinese restaurant.

He got the first train to Los Santos, staring the whole ride at the address for the city printed in blackened block letters, his heart uneasy in his chest. He had a small, salary job with the local city newspaper waiting for him, and a shitty place near too much traffic for him to be comfortable with, Joe’s letter tucked into the back of his mind, and one thought going through his mind:

_What have you gotten yourself into this time, Joe?_

 

* * *

 

**chapter one.**

 

**_* i._ **

 

The apartment he gets is nestled closely to its neighbours, their television static playing like a stereo through the walls, leaving him to uncomfortably try to sleep too early at night. It has greying walls, stains on the tiles and carpet that won't come out- he called someone out and was left with his hands gripping his hips when they said there was nothing they could do to remove them- and a dirty couch sitting in the middle of the room.

It's orange, he fucking _hates_ orange.

The gigantic orange couch is covered with a moth-eaten blanket he purchased at a market, bright and blue, but better than the eyesore underneath. It's not ideal, he'll admit, and half the cupboard doors in the kitchen are off their hinges, carpet coming up off the ground in the corners, but it's near depressing to even look at his bank account.

He has just enough to scrap by on skimping on groceries in favour for takeout from the restaurant whose lights keep him up. It's decent warmed up so he spends half his time living off reheated Chinese food, his kitchen empty other than cans being kept cool in the fridge.

If Joe was here- _ha_ , James thinks-

If Joe was here, he'd be dusting the floors and smiling, and whistling as he restocked James’ pathetic excuse for a kitchen with food that wouldn't expire, and James would absolutely hate him for it. He would, because the apartment is naturally dark even with the curtains open, but Joe had a way of making everything seem bright.

James’ heart tightens in grief, loose tendrils of hair from his bun tickling his neck, and he doesn't bother paying much more attention to what-ifs. It's pointless, he knows, and he shouldn't think about anything other than finding Joe and bringing him home; even if James hopes he has a slightly nicer place before then.

The concept of finding his friend who's gone missing, or being held somewhere, and driving him all the way to James’ place only for it to be the embarrassment it is, is almost enough to send James into cardiac arrest.

Yeah, he needs a new place. Just as soon as he has the extra money to put aside to save toward a bigger, better apartment on the nicer side of the city.

A place with a slightly bigger kitchen and an accessible balcony, even though in hindsight, anything would be better than where he is right now. A relatively cheap place he got from a distant, uncaring landlord who just wants the rent on time, which James is capable of despite his dwindling funds.

He left most of his money and possessions in his old apartment, as did Joe, but he has some income from his job with the newspaper, and an old account his mother set up for him a few years ago. A 'just in case’ couple thousand, to help with rent or emergency bills. It stings, a little, because James used to think he would look after his mother when she got old, be able to send her money and give her grandchildren.

Now, he feels like a failure.

Borrowing money from his mum, having to move to another city because his best friend of nearly fifteen years up and left him without warning. It hurts, admittedly, and he hates the way it makes him feel. Like he's done nothing with his life, and that if he keeps going like the way he is, eventually everyone he meets will leave him.

He'd hate the thought of his mother showing up to his apartment to see him, and instead seeing the embarrassing shell of a life he's built for himself. Everything hits a little close to home these days, in a way that tears at him, but at least he manages to sleep at night.

Barely, but he closes his eyes and daydreams and not to think about the things that make him feel lonely, until he's gone. Then, he wakes up and has a cup of watery coffee, calls a cab, and goes to work in whatever clothes he fell asleep in. It exhausts him and breaks him more than a typical sadness, and he wouldn't exactly call it depression, but today he finds himself calling in sick to work.

Before, when Joe was still around, he would wake James up, drag him out of bed, and press a warm drink into his hands. Maybe James got used to the being spoiled, but waking up these days seems less and less exciting, and more like a chore he wants to do tomorrow.

Joe used to cook dinner most nights, too, and James can't remember the last time he had a home cooked meal. He survives on cheap heat-up meals from the grocery store, and Chinese takeout that he'll get enough of so he can warm it up for dinner the night after. Living alone is lonely, with his view of the street and how busy the other residents of Los Santos are, and eating dinner while watching reruns of old shows he use to like.

It's probably why he finds himself on the street late, with the sun nestled into the horizon and streetlights springing to life around him. He's cautious, because the crime rate here is unbelievably high and the streets around his apartment are home to dealers and more strays than any pound would have room for.

It started with a cat twirling around his legs when he first moved into his apartment, and he'd stopped to check his phone as it vibrating violently in his pocket. It was a black cat, with a tinge of a cream colour on its nose, and he stared down at it as his phone buzzed impatiently in his outstretched hand.

“Get out of here,” he'd said, and it meowed, hollow and heartbreaking, and he didn't dare move. “Go home, you silly fucker. Your owner's probably worried about where the fuck you've gotten off to.”

It made a sad noise as it brushed against his leg, and he managed a low, “dumbass”, as it retracted itself from him and jumped onto a dumpster nearby.

It was an older cat, but still somehow young, and reminded him of when he and Joe were younger, and Joe had to housesit a friend's cat. Said cat was named something stupid he couldn't remember, but the owner was a friend of Joe's that James had never met named Asher. They were close, a little, and James was never more sure he was a dog person until the cat had ripped a hole in his favourite shirt.

There are so many strays around James’ shithole of an apartment, which is probably how tonight's walk to get his dinner turns into him following a small dog down the alley next to his apartment building. He has his Chinese takeout crinkled in a bag in one hand, the other reaching out to the puppy. It's not too big, a decent size but the kind of dog that'll fill out significantly, and covered in brown fur.

Its tongue sneaks out of its mouth as it stares at him, and he wishes it would hold still long enough to give him the chance to grab it.

“Puppy, come here, come on,” he tries, hushed, and knowing that his food is going to be cold and he'll have a pretty hard time explaining this to his neighbour. Him, with a dirty puppy in his hands and cold, spoiled, food, as he asks them to buzz him in because he left his keys in his apartment.

“Stupid dog, you f-”

At his louder words, it barks and wags its stubby tail at him, though he's too tired to crack a smile at it. If he was in a better mood, he might, but as it is, today was already hard without the extra added stress of this dog. Even if its got brown fur and a dopey smile, James wants to curse himself for seeing it and getting attached, especially so late at night.

He lures it over with cold food, a clean hand dipped into the plastic containers to pour rice onto the concrete slightly ahead of his foot. He's kneeling uncomfortably, one knee harsh against the cold and dirty ground, and when he reaches a gentle hand out to ruffle the puppy's fur, it doesn't run away.

“Where'd you come from, huh?” James whispers, his bank account and wallet crying because he knows he needs to take the dog to some kind of vet. It's underfed and dirty, matted hair blocking out its eyes, and he sighs as he tips more of his once-dinner onto the ground, his stomach growling as it mourns the loss.

The dog, for who he already has tucked a potential name for into the back of his mind, nuzzles against his hand as he retrieves his phone from his pocket to Google the nearest vet. The search returns very few results, but he remembers seeing a twenty-four hour emergency one a few days ago on a taxi ride to work, and it's close enough that he could get there by walking.

“No collar?” James mutters, fingers rubbing roughly around the dog's neck as it pants happily. “Just you? Pretty lonely, huh?”

The dog yawns, its warm breath huffed against his jean-covered legs, and he lets his fingers twist softly in its fur. They're both exhausted and he presses gentle knuckles to the top of its head before he scoops the remainders of his old Chinese food packets to dump into the nearest trash can.

The metallic cling of the lid makes the dog jump slightly, but it settles easily when he coos at it, and it lets him reach down and scoop it into his arms without a hint of hesitation. Quietly, James is thankful it didn't put up much of a fight, which can be expected of strays if this is one.

Unlike him, it seems to be handling the cold just fine, with its furry coat protecting its skin from the chill. James involuntarily shivers, freezing for a step as he examines his own breath coming out white, and tucks the dog further against him before it can shiver. Luckily, he wore his thick jacket; fake leather, and loose on him from the weight he's lost over the years, and warm. He ignores the voice reminding him that it was a birthday present from Joe a few months before he left, instead cautiously watching the barely lit street as he walks.

This hour of night, he isn't sure what to expect. The crime is bad enough during the day, but the police station is exhausted by the time the sun sets, and he hasn't been out this late to experience the lack of safety just yet. Los Santos attracts the same few people, even those unlucky enough to get a job here, or criminals looking for some fun.

The criminals that are your neighbours, your doctor, _yourself_. No one here exactly has clean hands, which makes James naively wonder how he ended up in this place, with his job at the local newspaper and his college degree. Except, almost bitterly, he knows exactly how he ended up here.

Joe left, to go wherever, and a postcard showed up out of nowhere with Joe's signature on it and a picture of Los Santos printed on the front. And, James, too loyal to not, followed it because it's Joe, and Joe is- _was_ \- his best friend, and he would follow him to the ends of the earth.

They've always been the type to do anything for each other, and James feels a betrayed anger at the reminder that Joe left. James must've missed the memo where he was told to stop caring about the friend he's known for almost longer than he's known himself.

James smuggles the puppy closer, listening to its quiet whimpering as a police siren sounds loudly in the distance. The wind is suddenly colder, the streets darker, and his heart drops at the thought of Joe here on his own. Joe chose to come here, to live a life that James wasn't meant to be part of it, and it's unbelievable, in a way. In another, James just wants to know why being left hurts so bad.

In his arms, the puppy sticks its tongue out and drools on the sleeve of his jacket.

He barely has time to react before flashing lights a few metres away catch his attention, and his tired eyes blur the words but he can tell it's the vet. Open, despite how late it is, and with a woman with a poodle on a lead walking out the door as a lady around his age, an employee, watches from the front desk close by.

James almost wants to turn around and leave, because he didn't think through the amount of social interaction he'd have to deal with tonight, and because the dog has slumped asleep in his grip. Despite that, his legs drag him forward, across the street to the vet tucked into the corner next to a laundromat, and he's pulling open the door with its loud bell before he can properly talk himself out of it.

“Hi, I'm Lindsey,” the girl behind the counter says, and she's got a friendly look on her face that soothes James’ nerves. When she focuses on the dog, however, her smile turns more genuine. “Is she yours? She's beautiful.”

The dog springs to life excitedly, and he watches Lindsey laugh politely at its struggle before she's pulling a small slip from under her desk. James can read the words on the top and his heart stops dead in his chest, because he doesn't really know why he's here. Except for, he picked up a puppy off a street and taking it to the vet seemed like the right thing to do.

“What's the problem here?” and a hand reaches out to ruffle the fur of the dog currently bouncing around in James’ arms.

“Uh,” is all he manages, then notices Lindsey's concerned gaze and says, “She's a stray, I think.”

He feels useless, trying to grasp at words to make a lick of sense without even knowing what to say. She is a stray, and he's not entirely sure _she_ even is a she. He hadn't bothered to look, more focused on the dog itself with its ribs poking through its belly, and the longish fur of its body matted together with dirt.

“A stray?” Lindsey repeats, but there's a comforting gaze in her eyes. “You just pick her up off the street or…”

“Yeah.”

To his left, a girl appears. Her name tag reading 'a . marie’ in fading black letters, and her long brown hair falling over her shoulders. She's pretty, young, and James is about to open his mouth to ask her if she's the vet when she notices him, and the dog, and strides over to the both of them with a wide smile on her face.

“This your dog?” she asks, and she lifts her head from the dog nibbling her hand to James. “I haven't seen a corgi in years, she's really pretty.” A pause, followed by, “Wanna bring her out the back so I can take a look?”

Marie doesn't wait for him to answer, but Lindsey gives him a nod from behind the front desk so he follows, the dog still wriggling impatiently in his grip.

“Anna,” she says, and offers James a hand to shake in a nice gesture.

He takes it without hesitation, and welcomes the warm heat coming through the vents that he can feel embracing him. It's better than the chill of the breeze outside, and a million times more effective than his own broken heating in his apartment, that he's tried to have fixed but since then stopped trying.

“I’m James.”

_Ein._

“Once you name them, it's impossible to give them up,” Anna says, looking up at him like expecting him to say he was hoping she'd take the dog off his hands.

James almost wants to hate her for being right, except he hadn't really thought of giving up Ein. Even from the first moment, when he'd been cursing himself out as he followed the stray, not once stopping to think about not keeping it. He can't even be mad at the forty bucks he spent on his dinner that went to waste, because Ein yawns and her little nails dig into his arm, and he knows he has to keep her.

Anna is staring at him when he finally lifts his head away from Ein to look at her, and he has to clear his throat to say quietly, “Yeah, wouldn't dream of it.”

The thing is, Ein grows attached to him quicker than he thought she would've. Anna takes his number down and hands it off to Lindsey to keep safe, with a small “Just in case you need to bring Ein back, we'll have you on file,” and he doesn't argue. Because, Ein is asleep and warm, and he can't imagine leaving her here.

The thing is, James grows attached to her quicker than he thought he would've. One minute, it's a Sunday and he's sitting alone in his apartment, and the next it's a Tuesday, or fifteen days since James up and left his old life to move here to find Joe, and he wakes up with a face full of soft fur.

When she finally manages to convince him to get up, with stubby puppy legs shaking his bed and her tongue licking excitedly at his face, she runs straight for the kitchen. The vet gave him enough food to last for today, because he works and it was too late the previous night to stop and get her any, and Ein must be able to smell it because she nips at his ankles, her tongue flopping about her mouth as he grabs a small dish.

Admittedly, he hasn't gone shopping since he moved here. He's picked some bits and pieces up at a nearby corner store, but that was mostly drinks to keep cool in the fridge, and a small throw he bought at a market he accidentally stumbled into on his way to work. It didn't make his apartment feel like home,  because he's been here for a little over two weeks and that's too soon, but having Ein makes it feel more like a place that _could_ feel like a home.

“Got stuff to do,” he explains as Ein scratches at his legs, and he watches as she yawns against him. “I'll walk you later, you little shit.”

Stuff, like groceries, and like checking the missing persons at the police station to see if anyone has reported Joe missing. James has been there at least three times already, anxious and with his hands balled impatiently into fists as Brett, an older officer, filed through the papers on his desk to pull out the most recent list of people reported missing.

It's not that James is expecting anything, and maybe he's the only person who doesn't know here Joe is, but he needs some kind of confirmation. A firm 'he's missing’ would be better than seeing his face, dead, on the news, or being at work and having the article detail his death pass by James' desk.

Still, he's not sure if not knowing is better than knowing something terrible has happened to him.

If Joe is dead- if, _fuck_ , if- then James could stop his search, could stop following random strangers in the street because he thinks they could be Joe; because James is stupid enough to believe it might actually be him. If Joe is really dead, and James never finds out, he'll spend the rest of what few years he has left trying to find him.

And, he'd never know he wasted his life trying to find someone who couldn't be found. Either because they're dead, or because whoever killed them made sure no one ever find them or their dead body.

Maybe worse, a concept that James has dreamt up so many times now he refers to it as his nightmare, is finding Joe when he doesn't want to be found. Like, James spends months, or years, which is more likely, looking for him and when he finally does, all Joe can say into James' shoulder is, 'What are you doing here?”

Yeah, James knows Joe, almost more than anyone ever has, and he knows he'd never leave but he did. Then he disappeared without a trace, and left only a nearly empty postcard to remember him by, so paranoia takes hold, and James pushes away the panic by trying to overthink himself out of overthinking.

Suddenly, at his feet, twisting around his ankles, Ein howl's shakily. She looks significantly better than she did last night, early this morning, with her dirty fur and scared face, and he swipes the small remain of her food off his kitchen counter with a, 'yeah, yeah, I get it.’

James isn't sure when he became the type to take in strays, but this dog looks at him with wide, happy eyes, and he feels his fondness tight in his chest. And, with that, he reaches a hand down to rub his fingers gently against the top of her head, bumping her ears, and she responds to his affection by nuzzling her food bowl.

Occupied by food, and the promise of a walk later, Ein barely lifts her head when she hears the click of James opening his front door. She'll mostly sleep while he's gone, and eat the corner of his dining table like she was earlier, and he makes a small mental note to get her some toys to keep her occupied. A rope or a squeaky toy, though his neighbour's probably wouldn't be too happy with the latter.

The grocers on the corner of a street a few blocks from his apartment is further than it seems in the light rain, James running a hand through his unwashed hair as he steps inside the doors. It's freezing from the air-conditioning and he hasn't been here before so he has to stop and look up at the aisle names to find what he needs. Dog food for Ein that the vet suggested, a bottle of soft drink to keep cool in his fridge, and a few other things here and there to stick alongside the bottle in the fridge. Just so it stops looking so empty.

He opens it every night just to look inside, the dim light illuminating the walls in his apartment, blinding his sleep-weary eyes and showing how spacious his place is. Later that night, when he gets up to go to the bathroom and turns on the light, and catches his reflection, it feels a lot like that fridge.

The dim lights, the dark room, the emptiness.

James prefers not to think about it, really, so he concentrates on the plastic bags they give him and how thin they are, enough so that he can feel the handles straining in his grip. He curses himself for not thinking about the walk home, with the grey clouds overhead predicting a storm, which is probably why he doesn't notice the kid running towards him until they collide; painfully.

His initial reaction is to get defensive, or mad at the very least, but the force sends his phone tumbling to the pavement, and the kid is staring at him with wide, worried eyes. The kid, with his brown hair slightly tinged lighter, his dark green jacket dirty, and a gun poking out of the waistband of his jeans. He looks like someone James is better off keeping his distance from, though most Los Santos residents give off that vibe.

James is midway through a string of curses when the kid pulls himself off the pavement and takes off, and maybe James is distracted but he still recognises his own anger when he catches the movement.

“Asshole!” James yells, turning from his position on the ground to catch the stride of long, clumsy legs running away.

The content of all his shitty grocery store bags are littering the floor, and he sighs, rubbing his dirty phone screen against the damp fabric of his shirt. It takes him a moment to move, albeit mechanically, to rub the rubble from his hands and collect himself, pulling his legs closer so he can use the leverage to push himself to a standing position. He brings collecting his things, the bottle beyond saving, and his stomach sinks when he stares at the empty ground, then pats his pocket and his keys aren't in there.

 _Shit_.

They must've gotten tossed aside when he dropped his stuff, either onto the road or further along the path. Except, he casts his gaze in front of him, then to the road, and can't see the familiar glint.

The stupid kid pickpocketed him; it would've been during the fall, a distraction so amidst the confusion and mess of his things on the ground, the kid could snatch his keys and run. Which, has James’ anxiety multiplied by ten, a hand patting his back pockets just to make sure, and he already can't believe he's going to have to call his landlord to replace those keys. He's already lost one pair, and he hates how his voice sounds over the phone.

And, God, everyone here is exactly the same. They're assholes, only looking out for themselves and not caring about anyone else, and James can't imagine his Joe living here amongst this. The image doesn't sit right in his brain, because Joe is too kind and loyal for this, and James stares at a small crack in his phone screen for longer than he should.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” James mutters to himself, slender fingers wrapping around his phone as the small beginnings of rain start to fall.

Every day here seems ten times more stressful and terrifying than the next.

 

.

 

“Brett!”

“Listen, kid, I really don't have the time for this,” Brett replies sharply, barely looking up to see James striding almost angrily through the front door of the police towards him.

James’ hair is a mess, small pieces of it alongside stringy curls framing his face, some pressed to his skin with a light sweat and rain from outside. Typically, he's got his work clothes on, dressed nice and formal; now, he's wearing jeans that are baggy around the ankles, an old pair of sneakers, and a plain, grey sweater with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I want to make a report,” he says, hands balled into fists as he settles them in Brett's desk and leans toward. “A robbery thing.”

James watches Brett carefully, because he doesn't know him very well but he knows enough to recognise Brett's face turning less serious than it typically is. Their usual interactions are characterised by a lack of contact and communication, usually just Brett passing James the newest list of missing persons for him to thumb through.

He never asks James who he's looking for, only sighs when he sees him walk through the doors and will lean in his rollie chair to grab the files from under his desk. They'll sit in silence, James will stand there and Brett will pretend he has something better to do, James will make a harsh noise in the back of his throat every time he thinks he sees Joe's name, then he'll mutter a thanks, slowly hand it all back, and leave.

They don't talk about it, because Brett doesn't need the extra trouble or stress, and because James doesn't want to talk about it. And, it fits them. The not talking.

“You got mugged? _You_?”

“You're an asshole, man,” James say, as Brett pulls open his notebook with a smuggled smile to do what was asked of him. “It's not fucking funny, okay? He knocked me over and stole my keys right out my pocket. Almost broke my fucking phone, too, like I can afford to replace either of those things.”

For a second, Brett's expression softens, though when he looks at James there's still amusement bright in his eyes. It should piss James off, and, admittedly, it kind of does, but he's preoccupied with trying to focus on how it's the second pair of keys he's lost just this week. And, God, his landlord is is going to string him up, or make him pay a fortune to replace this pair like he did last night.

Brett voice, interrupts James in the midst of a panic attack, says, “What'd he look like, Wilson?”

James tunes back in to reality, trying to pull up the memory of a few moments ago, the kid sprawled on the floor and panicked. When James speaks, he hesitates. “Dark hair, uh, short, I guess, and styled but kind of messy, and-”

“His _face_ , James. What did his face look like?”

“Young, he looked young, okay? I didn't get a good look, I was a little busy scraping my stuff off the sidewalk to notice the fucking teenager who pushed me.”

Brett stares, and stares, and stares, and James suddenly feels guilty for snapping, but he's tired and it's been a long day. And, Ein is back at his apartment, waiting to be walked, and he won't be able to do that because it’d be too much of a nuisance to ask his neighbour's to buzz him in twice in one day. It's bad enough he has to ask once.

“He was tall, like six foot something, and he looked around twenty, or around that, but I didn't get a good enough look.”

In front of him, Brett scribbles his words onto a clear piece of paper and promises to find the person who did it.

Two days later, James wakes up to an envelope on his kitchen counter, his house keys folded messily in it, and a note inside with a small, scribbled:

 

_sorry?_

_trev._

 

_._

 

James runs a hand through Ein’s fur, vision blurred as he stares at the dog in the light of the setting sun. She looks older already, more filled out and less hungry, and he pauses for a moment to press a hand to her ribs. They were exposed before, in a way that made him ache, but he can't feel them anymore.

“You homesick?” he asks.

She rolls over, belly exposed and tongue whipping his wrist, and gives him a playful- _painful_ \- yelp in return. It's cute, and it'd be cuter if his heart was caught in his throat, and he was still wasn't caught on how Joe left him, then baited him here and never showed. It's the kind of pain that hurts like it will never go away, and he ignores the dog scratching at his legs until her yaps bring him back from his thoughts.

“Your best friend left you too, huh?”

Ein whines, jumping up on all fours to throw herself into his lap, paws heavy on his thighs. To her credit, she seems to understand more than anyone else, and James chews his lip, blinking away the burning sensation in his eyes. He didn't cry when he woke up to Joe gone, but he woke up weeks after that and called into work sick because his whole body ached, and this feels too much like that.

“I know, girl,” he chokes, and she rubs her wet nose against his hand.“I know.”

 

_._

 

The strays in the alley next to James’ apartment are mostly cats, with Ein being a rare exception to that, and it's a week after his keys were returned to him that James spots a familiar figure leaning against the wall of the his apartment block. There's a dark blue dumpster near him, and James is hovering in the same spot he found Ein.

He knows he should mind his own business because this kid isn't his responsibility, and if the kid hadn't returned his keys maybe he would've stormed up to him and yelled at him a bit. Except, he takes a few steps closer, unnoticed, and under the light of the fading sun can see this kid is a bit younger than he thought, the blonde in his hair mostly washed out, and the rough beginnings of a beard on his face.

Maybe it wouldn't be fair to call him a kid, when he's taller than James and definitely not young enough for high school, and even from here, James doesn't like the way maturity looks in the eyes of someone so young.

“It's about to start pouring down,” James calls, “Just thought you might to know before you get pissed on.”

The kid- the dim light making something pretty of his face, eyebrows raised innocently- looks up, obviously startled, and he must recognise James from the other day because he stills almost immediately. He doesn't look scared, not with the unmistakable hilt of a gun peeking out the back of his jeans, but James can't help but pity him. He's alone, too, and these streets are dangerous.

“Uh, thanks, I was just-”

“Taking a nap in an alleyway?” James interrupts, humour in his tone, and hoping the slight upwards twist of his lips let's the other know he's teasing him. “Haven't got anywhere better to sleep?”

An unsteady moment passes where James can hear his heart thumping in his ears, a quirk of his anxiety, and he wonders if he pushed too far. The kid knocked him over, made him have to re-buy groceries he could barely afford in the first place, but he returned the keys, and apologised, breaking into James’ apartment to do so forgotten. They've kind of passed pleasantries, in James’ mind, at least.

“Passing through,” the kid- _Trev_ , James’ brain suddenly supplies- answers. “Got a place on the other side of town, but it's my friend's and he's visiting family so I don't really want to stay there on my own.”

James snorts. “You'd rather sleep alone in an alleyway than in a house?”

Another pause, where the exhaustion on Trev’s face is clear, especially with the lights overhead pointing out the small imperfections. Bumps of invisible acne, laughter lines, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he stares at James, and the fading purple bruising around his left eye. He looks young, but aged by Los Santos, and James feels sorry for him, a little.

“Will you get off my back if I tell you I made up the story about my friend and I don't have a place to stay? 'Cause my parents told me not to talk to strangers and I'm, like, a pretty high percentage sure that you count as a stranger.”

James laughs, hollow but there, and says, “I'm James.”

“James Wilson? The guy who works for Los Santos daily?” Trev inquires, and there's a knowing curiosity behind his words that is almost unsettling. Tells James that maybe this wasn't a meeting of chance.

“You familiar with it?”

“My friend Jakob works there, and he's just, like, an intern and stuff but he's mentioned you once or twice. I'm Trevor, by the way, huge fan,” he offers, a redness blooming in his cheeks. “Your articles on the gang wars are great, man. I used to read them on my work breaks, made me realise how shitty of a place Los Santos really is.”

The way Trevor smiles to himself seems like an inside joke, and James doesn't push, instead, he fights back his own smile, and  can't stop the playful tone that sneaks into his words as he says, “That so?”

“Yeah,” Trevor mutters, like he's embarrassed.

Maybe James is a little more gone on this boy than he wants to admit, because he's always been the type to quietly fall hard and fast. Trevor is no exception, with his eyes giving away his youth, his beard short but thick, and his hair tossed in odd directions where he's been running his hands through it.

He looks exhausted, and probably feels even more so, and James has to bite his tongue. He told himself after Ein that he wouldn't pick up anymore strays, he _promised_ himself, but this kid doesn't have a place to stay and at thought of him sleeping in the rain, James’ guilt rears its ugly head.

And, yeah, he doesn't have any reason to feel guilty, this kid mugged him, but he returned the keys, and James rolls his eyes at fate, but it seems too odd a coincidence for Trevor to choose this alleyway. The one right next to James’ apartment, with a hundred better alleys only a few minutes walk away.

“Need a place for the night?” James asks, and almost has the mind to get mad at himself for the way the words are softer than he intends. This kid, Trevor, mugged him, and any normal person who isn't James would likely turn him in to the police. 

“Dude, I really- Listen, I appreciate the offer and all, man, but I shouldn't. You're nice but you don't owe me anything, it'd probably just be best if you forget you met me,” Trevor says, then his face twists into understanding, and as way of explanation, he offers, “You know, for your safety.”

“You're, what, eighteen? I can't leave you here on your own,” James replies, and the words make sense out of his mouth even though he barely gave himself time to come up with a reason.

“I'm twenty-”

“You idiot, if someone offers you a place to stay, you say yes, _Trevor_.”

“Gross, dude,” Trevor says, laughing. “Why'd you say my name like that?”

Trevor ends up staying for weeks, and Ein jumps up into his lap as they sit together and watch television when James comes home from work. They eat Chinese takeout, and Trevor laughs with food in his mouth, and James tells him off with a 'hey!’ and a too gentle tap to his thigh.

And, Trevor doesn't ever mention leaving so James doesn't ask. Just feeds him, and does his washing, and texts him when he has to work late so Trevor won't wait up for him. He does anyway, and James pretends he doesn't like it but he does.

Trevor takes Ein for walks when James can't, and surprises him with cold food from a restaurant that is far too expensive for James’ bank account, and James doesn't complain the first night Trevor suggests they share James’ bed instead of one of them sleeping on the couch, and neither of them says anything when they wake up barely able to tell whose limbs are whose.

James falls in love with him a little, he thinks.

 

*

_end chapter 1._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're asking a lot from me here, James,” Brett says, voice low. Concerned doesn't begin to describe the look on his face, and when he speaks next, James can hear the tension in his voice. “Was this roommate of yours any trouble? In a gang or a crew, in with some bad people?”
> 
> “No,” James chokes. “No, he's just a kid. Tall and in his twenties, but he's just a kid, Brett.”
> 
> *
> 
> chapter two.

* * *

 

 

**chapter two.**

 

**_* ii._ **

 

James has one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans, the other uneasily clutching a plastic bag, sweaty with condensation. He'd told Trevor he'd shout dinner tonight, even though rent has been getting increasingly more difficult to pay, because Trevor was reaching for his wallet and James hated relying on him for anything.

A kid, walking his dog and buying his food and making his bed on the mornings he could barely even pull himself out of sleep. _Only need yourself_ , James tells himself, even if it isn't true. He had Joe for too long, relied on him for too long for him to become comfortable with the idea of the same thing happening with Trevor. Because, if it did? And, then Trevor left just like Joe did?

James shakes the thought from his head, instinctively tucking into himself at the sound of a gun cracking in the distance. A bullet presses itself into the concrete near his foot and his heart stops, then beats unhealthily fast as he tightens his hand in the plastic bag and sidewalks into the alley a few steps away. In hindsight, a bad idea, as a motorcycle drives past and he catches sight of blonde hair and a gun facing towards him, and the next bullet almost ends up tangled in the loose hairs framing his face.

And, _holy shit_ , he does not want to die today.

The moment ends, the motorcycle taking off at the lights, turning a corner, and James is paralysed with his own fear. It's not the first time he's been shot at in the small time he's been here, and last time someone pushed him into a wall and stole his wallet out of his back pocket, so, really, he should be used to it. Bitterly, he's not. Isn't sure he ever wants to be used to the lives those around him have chosen, with their crime and murders, and the slew of stuff he's unfortunate enough to see on the news.

Trevor, these days, barely flinches at it anymore. He tells James he grew up here, with parents with enough money that he lived in a slightly nicer part of the city, and over the years he's seen enough to not be bothered by any of it anymore. He's seen drug deals turn sour and someone pull out a gun and shoot someone point blank, and he's had to fight his way out of enough unfortunate situations to be familiar with the ways of Los Santos.

Trevor, who was running from someone or something the day he ran into James, and Trevor who then stole his keys.

That kid, with the panic clear in his face, seems world's away from the Trevor that James knows now. This Trevor, clumsily knocking over one of James’ dead plants on the windowsill because he was trying to climb out onto the fire escape to look at the fireworks he could see over the beach, and who presses his face against Ein's and laughs when she wriggles out of his grip and licks the bridge of his nose.

And, okay, James is still pressed against the back of a brick wall with his heart in his throat, constricting his airways, but he could've died. Really, if that guy had been a better shot, James would be dead and splattered all over the wall behind him. Which, invokes an image that's enough to have him kneeling over with his hands on his knees as he coughs up his lunch, trying to breathe through his nose. 

James’ dinner is definitely cold, and that's irritating enough to make him pull himself to a standing position, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. Old, warm, another present of Joe's he can't give up.

He tucks the pieces of fallen hair into his beanie, tugging it down back onto his head, and starts the few minute walk back home, to Trevor and Ein. He goes fast, but cautious, because getting mugged again or actually getting shot would be some kind of cherry on top of one of the shittiest days he's had in some few weeks.

When he turns the key in his door and opens it, Trevor is sitting on the ugly orange couch, the throw sitting in his lap, and Ein jumps off him to throw herself at James. Her nails scratch at his jeans as she barks for attention, and Trevor doesn't turn around as he offers a hello. It's genuine but tired, and James offers an unenthusiastic grumble in return. And that, that, has Trevor turning to look at James, standing in the doorway.

“James?” he asks, and sounds concerned, for James or because he's missing a few minutes of whatever he's watching. Then, he looks away, and tucks himself back into the sofa cushions that are too hard on James’ back. “Bad day?”

“I just almost got shot,” James says, and his own disbelief is hidden in his words. “Some blonde asshole on a bike, almost scrubbed up my new fuckin' shoes.”

Trevor cranes his neck to the side, and James focuses long enough on the television to recognise the reality show he's been watching too much of. Los Santos, for all the excitement it has to offer, is particularly boring if you're like James, and Trevor easily became a victim of binge-watching one of those ridiculous Real Housewives shows under James’ bad influence. They're terrible, really, but it's a good way to unwind after a day at work, with cold food in his hands and Trevor next to him.

“Not a very good shot,” Trevor offers, and there's a small smile on his face that indicates how amused he is at the situation.

James stares at the back of Trevor's head, mouth open to argue before he decides against it, and kneels down to rub at the fur under Ein’s chin. She nestles into the touch, tongue hanging out her mouth, and James catches Trevor's twisting to look at him over the back of the couch.

“Are you alright?” Trevor asks, suddenly, and his voice is so soft, so concerned and sorry, that James has to look up at him, has to offer a smile even though it feels like the last thing he wants to do right now. Trevor looks uneasy, and worried, and James can practically feel the anxiety coming off them both hanging in the air.

“Hungry,” he offers, and watches as Trevor's eye flicker eagerly to the bag of food sitting on the kitchen counter. “You?”

“Yeah,” comes the reply, too quick, almost, and James lets out a knowing laugh.

Ein walks off to sit in the corner, and Trevor gets up from the couch, giving James enough time to notice what he's wearing. Pyjama pants, that look warm with small holes in the pant legs, a pair of mismatched socks which James hasn't ever seen before, and a baggy shirt. Or, one that would be baggy on James but fits Trevor well, like it's his and not one of James' old ones that he stole out of his drawers.

He says, “Is that my shirt, Trevor?”, at the same time that Trevor says, “Can you stop staring, dude?”

Trevor laughs, quietly, and maybe his cheeks are a little flushed, and maybe James is still staring because he doesn't know how not to. Because, he's accidentally gotten their shirts messed up while doing the washing and ended up at work wearing one of Trevor's shirts, but Trevor's always noticed he had the wrong thing. Always silently returned it to James’ pile without a word.

“I got Cheetos on mine,” Trevor says, sudden, and James’ attention flickers up to meet his gaze. “Figured you wouldn't mind… do you?”

The way it's phrased sounds like a challenge, like he's asking if James wouldn't mind this being a recurring event, like James’ heart doesn't stop dead at the thought. Trevor's already taken his keys, his apartment, his dog, part of his paycheck - his heart - so what kind of difference does it make if a few of James’ shirts go missing every now and then.  

He stops, watches Trevor's hungry eyes follow his actions as he opens the plastic bag sitting on the counter, slowly taking the nearly cold Chinese takeout out of it.

“Should I?” he asks, like he couldn't care less, and Trevor gives an almost knowing look before he shrugs, picks at the open food containers sitting on the counter with two chopsticks poised clumsily in his hand. “Just… don't get it fucking dirty, you animal.”

It must be the answer Trevor wants, because he takes one of the containers of food and accepts a plastic fork James passes him, and it seems like he doesn't want the conversation to go further. Which, suits James because he's not exactly in the mood for banter, even though that's usually how they spend their nights; sitting together, Ein at their feet, and James will go to bed first after cleaning up then Trevor will crawl in next to him an hour or so later.

But, almost getting shot takes its toll.

When he'd gotten mugged, Trevor had fussed over him for days after, worry drawing his eyebrows together and he slept purposefully closer to James that night. James tried to say it was no big deal, _really, Trevor, it's fine,_ but his voice was quiet, his hands shaking, and he was soaked from the rain. So, a terrible day, of course, and he gave Ein a little more tired attention than usual.

But, getting shot at, almost killed and probably left for dead in an alley James passes multiple times every day, leaves a certain feeling of dread in his stomach. Dread, and anxiety, because if he died, who would look after Ein, who would look after Trevor, and who would look for Joe when no one else was?

The overthinking, which he tries to reason is responsible, makes him feel sick, and he puts his dinner in the fridge for tomorrow. Tomorrow, if he doesn't get shot, or something else goes terribly wrong, which with James’ record is very, very likely. Very likely.

“Not hungry?” Trevor's voice, coming from the couch and startling James.

“Don't talk with food in your mouth,” James scolds, gently, more out of habit than anything else. He's barely looking at Trevor, eyes drooping shut with exhaustion, and hopes his sudden change in attitude isn't questioned. “I'm going to bed, yeah? Work early tomorrow and all that, I'll see you later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Trevor says, and his forced smile doesn't mask the unmistakable look of worry on his face. “I'll come to bed soon.”

Sleep doesn't come easy, never really does, and Trevor doesn't join James even after an hour, which is normal, so James tucks his phone under his pillow and closes his eyes against the city light streaming through his cheap curtains. He thinks about Joe, about Ein on the street on her own, about Trevor sleeping in the alley next to James’ apartment, thinks about himself with a bullet in his head, and shivers under his covers even with the heat on.

It's cold still, despite the fact he got the heat fixed again last week, and even then he can't blame his shivering on the chill. He blames it on Los Santos, on the way it takes and breaks, and all the terrible things he's seen people do for money.

Ein barks loudly, paws pressing rough into the side of James’ face as she does so, and he ignores it, reaching a small hand to grab at Trevor sleeping beside him. Except, all he feels is coldness, sheets beside him unslept in and empty. And, in the distance, a door clicking shut.

.

The police station - _Brett_ \- is twenty minutes away from James’ apartment if he calls a cab, and closer to fifty minutes if he tucks his phone into his pocket and walks. He doesn't exactly have the money to be paying a taxi fare, and he ignores the way his stomach turns at the sight of the rain outside his bedroom window. With his hair tied up messily, frizzy from where he washed it where he woke up, and old boots, with a pair of newer jeans and a graphic tee, and a thick jacket hugging him.

Anything is better than the rain, better than sitting in his couch waiting for someone to come home when they won't. Because, Trevor's stuff is all gone, no note like Joe, but James has listened to the robotic woman's voice on the other side of the phone tell him too many times that Trevor's number could not be reached.

Maybe, James panics more than he admits. He wakes up and stands in the kitchen with his eyes closed like he can wish Trevor back into his life, and the worst part is he doesn't know why he left. So, James feeds Ein and watches the news, and he showers and uses all the hot water because he's the only one there to use it, and he eats warmed up, soggy Chinese food out of the cardboard it came it. It tastes bad, bland, like the cardboard.

He gets dressed, he checks around for a note or clue Trevor might've left, and doesn't bother locking his door when he takes off towards the elevator to get to the street. He can go to the police station and Brett can fix this, and James can fix this, because one thing has to go right this month, at least. He really, really doesn't know what to do, and the thought leaves him with his hands balled into fists at his side.

James runs, more than walks, to the police station, and he drops water onto the floor because he's soaked, and his hair is half undone at this point. He looks like a mess, more so than usual, and the front door of the station swings shut slowly as he steps impatiently through it.

“Brett!”

In the near distance, a head pops up, and James barely has time to wave at him before Brett is pushing out his chair and walking away. _Asshole_ , James thinks, and narrowly avoids knocking a crying woman over in his quest after Brett, heavy steps and breathless gasps as he dodges careful gazes.

Brett's near the back, making himself a cup of black coffee, and James slams a hand down on the table with Brett's coffee when he finally catches up with him.

“What the fuck-” James breathes, hisses, “-is wrong with you.”

Brett doesn't owe him anything, they're not friends and James only uses him to check missing persons for Joe's name, something he doesn't feel the tiniest bit guilty about, but being ignored stings. Other than Ein, who can't, Brett is the only person who hasn't disappeared on James so far. He's always there, when James gets lost and needs someone to call to help him figure out where he is, or to help look for Joe.

He's loyal and good at his job, and James takes advantage of it more than he'll admit but he wouldn't constantly visit if he didn't like Brett. The guy is funny, that kind of deadpan humour that makes James laugh, and he keeps to himself enough that James knows they're similar in some ways. With pets and potted plants, and a shitty apartment with no friends.

“You look upset,” Brett says, but he looks blank behind the eyes, like he really couldn't care less. “Something troubling you?”

James can't do anything, even talk, but stare, tired, and with dry tear stains tracking down his cheeks evident in the low light of the station. He's exhausted, from everything, and he got enough sleep last night to despise the bags tugging at the unders of his eyes. What's happened with Joe has probably happened again, and James has already spent hours looking, and calling, and the checking the news waiting to hear Trevor's name. At this point, he's too tired to joke around.

Brett must notice, blank eyes dragging across James' paling face to his shaking hands curled into fists, because his face twists into a hard seriousness. He turns from the casual Brett that James has come to know, to Officer Hundley in the blink of an eye.

“Do we need to talk somewhere private?” he asks, leaning in, and his voice is quiet in a soft way that instantly relaxes James’ tense shoulders.

James shakes his head, uncurling his fingers, and he's too aware of how damp he is from the rain, clothes swelled with rain and dripping on the floor of the station. God, he's a mess. A proper mess, with his hair and his face and how he looks in general, and the fact that he's been left behind again and it's all too clear he doesn't know how to handle it. He doesn't know what to do, other than sit around looking lost.

“No, I just- I need some help, Brett,” James says, and hates how broken his words come out. Brett stares back, waiting, and his hands are tight around his coffee cup. “Can you-”

“James, man, you need to tell me what I need to do,” Brett whispers, sincerity behind it, and he's watching James with uncertainty. “I can't promise I'll help but it'd be nice if I knew what was wrong, yeah?”

James nods, swallows the anxiety building in his throat. God, he can barely bring himself to say it, because he doesn't know anything about Trevor apart from what he looks like and his name, but that could be fake, if he's run off. Run off, because he wasn't happy where he was or James was too much trouble. With his getting mugged and getting shot at yesterday, and maybe it scared Trevor, made him worry about it happening to him, so he left.

If that's the case, James can't even be mad. He's not, right now, because maybe there's a good explanation or Trevor had to make an emergency trip to visit family and his phone died so he can't call, and he was in a hurry so he forgot to leave a note explaining. James doesn't want to assume the worst, but something in the back of his mind taunts; they leave because of him, always 'cause of him, that's all.

“My roommate's missing,” he manages, ignoring Brett's curiosity suddenly pique. “He was gone when I woke up this morning and I want you to check records for his name.”

“You're asking a lot from me here, James,” Brett says, voice low. Concerned doesn't begin to describe the look on his face, and when he speaks next, James can hear the tension. “Was this roommate of yours any trouble? In a gang or a crew, in with some bad people?”

“No,” James chokes, because Trevor was too soft for that, with Ein asleep in his lap or watering the dead plants on James’ windowsill, or googling stupid things like if fireworks would work in the rain. At the back of James’ mind, it makes sense, but he doesn't want to think about it so he doesn't. “No, he's just a kid. Tall and in his twenties, but he's just a kid, Brett.”

Something clicks in Brett's mind because a smile inches onto his face, almost disbelieving, and he lets out a high laugh when he says, “The kid who mugged you, seriously?”

James clenches one of his hands back into a fist, tries to ignore how humiliated he feels in the low lights in the back of the police station. He's been coming here every day after work trying to find a friend who probably doesn't want to be found, and had his keys stolen by a teenager, and now he's here, after said teenager was invited into his home and then chose to leave. The air coming in through the window to his right suddenly feels tighter.

He's never been the smartest, he knows, but even he knows how utterly ridiculous he must sound. Trying to find the kid who stole his keys because he was too soft to not take him in, and picking up human strays is a lot different to picking up a dog like Ein. Ein can't leave; James can't _fall in love_ with her.

“Trevor, his name is Trevor,” he whispers.

Brett's voice is low, full of emotion and _sorry_ , apologetic, as he says, “We'll find him, James.”

James goes home, because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to do, and Ein's been on her own for a while. He gets distracted on the way, phone empty of notifications in his pocket, because a ginger cat is sitting under the shade of a bit of roof, in the alleyway next to his apartment where he found Ein and Trevor. Its fur is plastered to it with rain and it's young, underfed, meowing to him desperately as he passes.

It runs to him when he opens his arms, brushing droplets of water out of its fur, and continues meowing when he picks it up and wraps it in his jacket. He half expects to find Trevor sitting on his couch when he opens the door, instead greeted with silence then Ein barking enthusiastically and impatient at him. He feels too sick from everything going on, and the badly warmed up takeout he had for breakfast, and his stomach hates him.

It's nearing night outside, the sun reflecting off the windows across the street from his apartment, and he keeps his head down to avoid the blinding glare. He's still wet from the rain, dripping stale water onto his feet, and he strips out of his clothing, practically peeling his jeans from his skin, taking the cat into his bathroom to dry. Dinner can wait for later, but he manages to put some food in a bowl for Ein, and ruffles the fur on her head on his way to his bedroom.

Most of his clothing is sat in a basket waiting to be washed, something Trevor had volunteered to do a few nights ago, so James ends up in an old pair of moth eaten pyjama pants and an even older print t-shirt. Both of them fit hazardously, but they're warm and dry, and a million times better than sleeping in anything else. He takes an old shirt he had as a teen for the cat, and finds it asleep on a coat he left on the floor a few days ago.

“Ein,” he calls, and doesn't waste time getting into bed when he hears her nails scratch on the ground in reply. It's early for bed, especially by his standards, but he's had a rough day and done more walking than he can ever remember doing, so he tucks his covers over him and focuses on the steady pitter-patter of rain outside. And Ein, warm where she's curled herself up near his feet.

James wakes up slowly, a voice drifting in from his living room, the light of his television flickering to life visible on his walls from where he's left his door open the tiniest bit. Ein's asleep still, and he shuffles away from her to get out of bed, ignoring the alarm sounds bouncing around his head in warning. It's Trevor, or a ghost who wants to watch the news at some time past midnight, and James is too anxious to slowly push his door aside.

It's dark in his apartment, no one around, and for a moment he can convince himself he left it on but then the light overhead is turning on, a figure standing near his front door. And, _oh, God_ , he's so getting mugged again, in his own home.

There's a man standing there, finger on the light switch, the other on the trigger of a gun. His face is unreadable but something about him feels familiar, like maybe James has seen him before, with his blonde hair and young face. He looks angry, and James holds a hand out defensively as if he can block a shot if the guy decides to shoot at him.

Ein, uselessly, is still snoring in the other room.

James listening to her is enough of a distraction from the television, which suddenly steals all his attention. A man is on, talking too low for James to decipher what exactly he's talking about, but, he doesn't need to listen. A photo shows up, covering the screen, and James attention instantly goes to a face in the picture that he knows. Trevor, in front of a wall of graffiti, a slew of unfamiliar characters next to him.

The photo is clear enough that James can tell it was taken recently, and he can make out some of the writing in the background. Like, the large blue letters behind Trevor's head, to the left a bit, and James’ own name there _; james + trev_ , messy but in Trevor's handwriting. And, next to him, hair cut short and a smile bigger than James has ever seen on his face; Joe.

Joe, who James never told Trevor about, with a gun in one hand and the other arm around Trevor's shoulders. They're all kneeling to Joe's height, the vet who looked after Ein pressing a kiss to a stranger's cheek. Jesus, James thinks, and almost lifts a hand to feel his forehead, because he has to be sick, or dreaming. There's just no way, none at all, that Joe's alive and okay, and with Trevor of all people.

James almost can't look away, until the image fades back to the newscaster, and crime statistics are suddenly there, and James has forgotten to breathe. Everything is clicking together in his head, piecing everything together, like Joe not being reported missing, Trevor stealing James’ keys, the way Trevor barely flinched at the things that made James himself sick or scared, at Brett so calmly asking if Trevor was involved in anything.

It shouldn't make sense, it really, really shouldn't, but he'd have to be an idiot to see the photo and not think suspiciously of it. This whole time Joe was right under his nose, friends with Trevor, and now there's a strange man in James' apartment with a gun, waving it about to his right and shouting in a language that James doesn't know. He looks pissed, his features just visible in the bad lighting of James’ small kitchen, and James wonders if this man can see how tired he is.

If Trevor were here, maybe he would know what to do. Maybe he'd call his criminal contacts or Joe, and this gun-toting man would stumble and leave. Maybe James is so caught up in thinking, in pretending, that he doesn't realise this man is trying to ask him something. Granted, it's not in English and he's talking so fast that James struggles to understand even one word he's saying.

He waits, and watches for any sign of danger or an accomplice, and James has always had too hot a temper, too big a mouth to not say anything.

“Buy me dinner first?”

The man keeps talking, an exaggerated accent heavy in his words, and James watches the way he suddenly regards him when he talks, with a break in his facade for a moment. But, he keeps speaking, so fast that James can't pick anything out of his sentences but a single word, a name. One that is too familiar for him to simply ignore.

“Trevor?” he tries, and the man stops to stare at him. James is tired, but Trevor not being here with him feels worse and worse every second he has to think about it. “He's fucking missing, okay? I don't know where he is but he's definitely not here, and I'd appreciate it if you would lower your gun, you asshole. I've already looked for Trevor, he's not here. And no one else knows he is, so holding a gun at me isn't going to make me tell you where he is because I don't fucking know.”

There's a pause, terrifying enough that he thinks he's going to get shot or maybe the name is merely a coincidence and he's fucked up. But the man laughs, not mockingly or because he's humoured but it sounds relieved, like he didn't want to have to shoot anyone today despite the gun in his possession.

“You look… you look like you've had a pretty rough day, dude,” this man, standing in his apartment, _holding him at gunpoint_ , says.

James stares.

“Jesus Christ, man, you speak English?” he manages, and scoffs in disbelief. That would've been so much easier to start with, a polite handshake and a confirmation that they'll understand James when he later tries to beg for his life when they shove a gun at me. “I thought you were going to shoot me, you asshole.”

“Friend of Trevor,” he replies, as if that makes up for it, and lowers his gun with some newfound level of trust towards James. “Someone said I could find him here, with a James?”

Trevor's only been gone for a day but it feels like weeks, Iike James didn't just wake up yesterday without him for the first time. Something similar to how he felt when Joe left hits him out of nowhere, and he's unsteady on his face. They left him, both of them, and now they're somewhere else with guns and James’ vet, which makes his head spin. Los Santos is a nightmare; no one is ever who they say they are, somehow he's still getting used to that.

“Do you see him here?” James asks, and the man looks around unsurely. “I told you, he's not here. I have no clue where he is, he took off yesterday.”

This seems to be a good enough answer, and the gun makes a gut wrenching sound when it's dropped onto James’ kitchen counter. Ein barks then, and the man standing there glances nervously at James’ bedroom door before Ein runs through it. She's more excited than she is protective, and she scratches at the man's legs, his face unsure before he leans down to scratch behind her ears.

“What's her name?” he asks, a small smile on his lips. Ein pushes herself closer to him, grateful for the attention she's being given, and James wants to know when this became his life. Standing in his pyjamas at midnight, watching an intruder with a gun within reach pat Ein in James' kitchen.

“Ein,” he says, heart skipping a beat when the smile for Ein is directed at James. “You?”

The man keeps looking but his smile fades, blonde hair peeking out the front of his hat where he's shoved it on backwards. It's not hard to imagine him as one of Trevor's friends, really, but it's terrible to know this is probably someone Trevor stayed with before James, before he took off and left them both behind. It's not a nice feeling that has James walking towards Ein and the stranger, tiles of his kitchen cold as he sits against one of his counters.

“Aleks,” the man offers, eyes not leaving James until he's sitting down. “Used to work with Trev, until one of his friend's left and he went M.I.A. He's smart, always one step ahead, you know? But I thought maybe this would be where he settled down for a bit, with some newspaper journalist and his cute dog.”

“Yeah, well, so did I,” James mutters, not missing the apologetic glance Aleks gives him.

“You're Joe's friend, right?” Aleks asks, and, yeah, that gets James’ attention more than their small conversation about Trevor did. “He showed me a picture a while back, said to keep an eye out for a James in case you came around looking for him. You didn't, just so you know.”

“Fuck off,” he says, and Aleks laughs softly. “He was impossible to find, I've been looking for weeks.”

Silence drowns out whatever they were going to talk about next, Aleks eventually getting tired of patting Ein and Ein getting tired in general, and James is stuck sitting on his floor staring at a crack in a tile. While Aleks settles in front of his him, resting his head back against James’ oven he doesn't use. They're not friends, but there's a mutual understanding there, at least. One that has James saying, “Need a place for the night?”

Aleks is surprised, cautious, but there's a grateful look there that has James thankful he asked.

“Yeah, dude. Yeah, that'd be great.”

  
*

 

_end chapter 2._

 

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr is @ohgavins if ur interested! kudos n comments are very appreciated, thanks for reading! and, as always, apologies for any mistakes/typos! there shouldn't be any but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> \- rachel.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Brett-” Trevor tries, stretches an arm out and realises the shirt he's wearing isn't his.
> 
> “I'm saying this because I care about you,” Brett says, and the tone of his voice makes Trevor's eyes burn, his heart squeeze and ache painfully. “And because I don't want you to get hurt, Trevor. You can't do this.”
> 
> *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introducing: trevor.
> 
> ;)

* * *

 

**chapter three.**

 

**_* iii._ **

 

Trevor was forced into this life before he had the slightest chance of saying no. Fourteen with the safety off on a gun he'd stolen from a man dead in an alley, and a decent enough pickpocket that he managed to get by. He wasn't exactly nimble, tall enough that it was hard not to notice him lingering by your side, but talented and desperate to the point of pulling it off almost flawlessly. No one turned a blind eye at the clumsy kid cutting corners, sliding himself into queues others had been waiting hours in, and it was impressive.

To come from so much and end up with nothing, Brett said once. Because, Trevor should've had everything handed to him, should not have had to survive off the dimes he pulled from tired businessmen’s pockets. And, unsuccessfully, an even more tired police officer who wanted nothing more than to retire, his hand tight around a young Trevor's wrist as he tugged and tugged, and begged with thick tears for Brett to not take him in.

Trevor was sixteen, hair dark and long in his face enough to hide the red in his cheeks, the tears frozen in his eyes. Brett was taller than, eyes blank and terrifying, and Trevor’s begs were interrupted with the hiccups of a kid who was scared, pleading for his life. Being caught stealing usually meant throwing himself anywhere that wasn’t the person who had caught him with his hand in their pocket, running and running until he collapsed in an empty alley.

Brett caught him by surprise, barely flinching before he had his fingers clasping Trevor’s wrist tight, face void of emotion. Even when Trevor pulled his leg back and kicked at his shin, twisting blindly in an attempt to get out, and Brett was still staring, gaze caught on the teenager shaking wildly in front of him. It wasn’t until Trevor had stopped, voice raspy from screaming and physically incapable of struggling or crying more, that Brett’s grip softened.

“If I let you go,” he said, patient, Trevor’s heart stopped dead in his chest, “will you stay where you are?”

Trevor was nodding desperately, trying not to focus on himself rotting in a jail cell, his parents somewhere that wasn’t with him. Brett let him go cautiously, a sudden kindness in his features that Trevor hadn’t seen in too long. Naturally, he ran.

He was always quick on his feet, good at the long game, running until there was no possible way the other person could catch up. He had that going for him at least, a jean jacket that was too loose and riddled with holes shifting in the wind heavily as he legged it from Brett, wiping at his blotchy face with his sleeve. Terrified didn’t even come close to how he felt, the need to cry unfulfilled because there was nothing more to come out. He would blame that on dehydration, on living on the streets, and he’d sit on the street with his mouth open in the rain hours later.

Trevor grew up well, on a good side of the city of Los Santos, if there was one. He had a good house and an enrolment at a nearby school, until his parents went somewhere and didn’t come back. No one came looking for him at first, until he woke up to a shatter in a downstairs window and a gunshot crackling through the air, and didn’t even packing his stuff before he had taken off. Nothing but the clothes on his back and a pair of battered old sneakers, and with no thought of what his life would be like in the future.

Pickpocketing petty cash from people for years before graduating his skills to taking people’s whole wallets. He’d sit in hollow, abandoned warehouses along the shore and laugh to himself at their license photos until he fell asleep. Was barely even sure at that point that there was anything for him that wasn’t that life, picking pieces of glass from his hair when he woke up and slipping food into his pockets at the stores where the employees didn’t follow him around. Him, with his sneakers that filled with water in the rain, his bumpy, unwashed hair, and the jean jacket on his back.

That was how Brett found him again, a month or so after Trevor had tried to slip whatever he could out of Brett’s pockets. Brett, at a store a few blocks from the police station, dressed in his work clothes and staring disappointedly down at the kid sat in handcuffs on a chair with stolen wallets stuffed in his pockets. He looked sorry, underfed, and Brett was rough when he lifted Trevor up to a standing position, dragging the quiet kid with his feet scuffling the ground as he walked after Brett.

“You’re a goddamn idiot, you know that?” Brett said, low voice and teeth gritted as he opened the back door of his cruiser to let Trevor in.

Trevor looked ashamed, with barely enough energy to fight back or try to wriggle away and maybe. His jacket was falling off one shoulder, his eyes sore from lack of sleep and from where he’d obviously been crying in the store while waiting for the police to show up, and he was waving unsteadily on his feet like he might pass out if he didn’t sit down soon. Still, he lifted his head to focus his blurred eyes on Brett, and his breathing was audibly shaky as he did.

Brett stared back for a minute, an eyebrow raised in question, and his voice was quiet as he said, “Get in,” a hand flattening the hair on Trevor’s head as he helped him get in the back seat.

Trevor was quiet in the back, the sound of him wincing as he tried to wriggle out of his cuffs, not hiding his public attempt as Brett watched him in the mirror. He looked ridiculous, but like he had no other choice, and he yelped and rubbed at his hand, a small peak letting Brett know he’d resorted to trying to break his finger to get out. It was useless, locked in the back of a police car with no escape, but his determination was admirable.

“Calm down,” Brett said, a lilt of humour in his words, and Trevor lifted his head quick, with his eyes wide and uneasy. “I’m not taking you in, okay, kid? Quick the act, we passed the station two minutes ago.”

Trevor was skeptical, but an understandable fear reflected in his eyes. He cleared his throat, dropping his red wrists into his lap as he clasped his hands together and tried to ignore the sting he’d gotten trying to escape. There was an untrusting look directed at Brett, Trevor shifting his shoulders to fix the way his jacket had begun falling on both of his shoulders in the small scuffle. He was still looking for an escape even as he stared at Brett in the mirror, the small movements of his eyes revealing his uneasiness.

He looked smaller to himself in the seat, Brett’s usual passengers larger men who he’d take directly to the station without a word. But, Trevor was young, talented despite his few mistakes, and he could feel his own panic disappate then return at the idea of being taken somewhere else. Like, he was going to be thrown off a cliff or sold to some gang, and his chest heaved with sudden, quick breaths that weren’t those he’d panted while trying to get his cuffs off.

“Where-” a nervous, deadly quiet pause as he leaned forward in his seat. “Where are you taking me?”

It was all too common, the situation, for Trevor, his hair sweaty and in his face, and an exhaustion visible in his face that could most commonly be found in those much older than him. People had tried to use him before, a cheap price offered if he slipped them someone’s wallet, or a gun pressed to his head in a random street as someone stole all his savings from his pocket.

The look on his face, all tired and close to tears once again, broke Brett’s heart. He had kids around the same age come into the station all the time, with piercings and dyed hair and parents looking for them, but Brett had looked around already through missing kid files to find Trevor’s face and his search had returned nothing. Everyone had someone looking for them, a worried parent or tired older sibling or dying grandparent, but the kid in the back was nothing more than a ghost.

Until now, of course, because Brett had already spoken to some old contacts to see if Trevor belonged to any of them. Lindsey got back to him first, older but still as kind as he remembered, and said she’d left the business too long ago to know a kid that young. And Anna, Lindsey now pressed to her side, called to let him know that as far as stories went, there was a dark-haired boy who spent a lot of time lingering around the streets. Asher had only gotten back to Los Santos last week and was still trying to find a job, and Joe was a case of someone who had disappeared and didn’t want to be found.

Brett had asked around, contacted one of Ramsay’s boys to ask if he could be found; Gavin, shaggy hair with a rough loyalty, who got back to him hours later to say even he couldn’t find anything. So, his search spat back in his face, and slowly his old friends got back into contact, said they were wondering when they’d hear from his again. Everyone but Joe, and according to Aron, who was never in the business but was always willing to help out, was back in his hometown with a normal job.

Then, Aleks, after a trip back to Russia for a few years because he had ties there, and America had taken its toll for a bit. He texted Brett from an unknown number to say he’d gotten Brett’s contact details off Jordan a few months ago but was too nervous to call, figured maybe he wouldn’t want to talk to him after everything that had happened. Which, is probably how he ended up sleeping on Brett’s couch weeks later. Brown hair in his eyes, tattoos Brett hadn’t seen before, and a look in his eyes that told Brett he’d gone through more than he was willing to share.

Trevor, in the back of the car with his hair in desperate need of a cut, and his eyes darting around for an exit sign anywhere, reminded Brett of the first time he’d met Aleks. He was eighteen then, hungry but so, so talented, and maybe the image of Aleks all alone that young reminded him of why he had gone looking for Trevor in the first place. Because, Brett is intimidating and he has a job that doesn’t exactly make sense for someone who used to work in a small gang, but he looks out for people. Always has.

“You must be, what, sixteen?” he laughed, ignoring the hurt look that crossed Trevor’s face as he moved around in his seat to get comfortable despite the cuffs keeping him where he was. “I was living with my parents until I was twenty, so call me what you want but maybe I feel a little sorry for you.”

Trevor, lips pushed out in an unimpressed pout, probably would've be crossing his arms if he was capable. Instead, he turned his head to watch out the car window to his right, the ocean stretching out as they drove across the bridge, thoughts unreadable, as he breathed out an unmistakable, “Asshole.”

Trevor had been watched over and questioned by concerned adults more times than he could count on both hands, because being sixteen and the way he is attracts a lot of attention. From store owners watching him walk around the aisles because they know his sort, the type to slide food into their pockets when they're not being watched, and from parents with their own kids who can't mind their own business. He was a teenager, with loose fitting clothes that don't belong to him, and a look in his eyes that didn't fit right for someone so young.

It's probably why Brett drove past the station, let Trevor's cuffs off at the next red light, and took him back to his apartment. Aleks was there, asleep on the couch with the bright television screen shadowing shapes and colours into his face, and Trevor stood in the doorway and stared. Brett was unimpressed, tired, maybe, and Aleks woke with a start and a loud 'hello?’ when Brett pulled the blanket off him, almost knocking him to the floor.

“You ever plan on getting your own place?” Brett asked, with a look on his face that told Trevor that he didn't mean what he said. “Sleeping on my sofa like a stray dog, doesn't that bother you?”

Aleks wasn't listening, eyes cautiously glaring over at Trevor, but there was a soft understanding in his face that was comforting. Until, he leaned up, brushed a clumsy hand through the thick dark hair on his head, and said, “Brett, what the fuck?” with a voice deeper, sharper, than Trevor had expected.

Trevor hadn't slept somewhere as nice as that in years, wasn't used to being around people who were willing to take care of him. He was always by himself, only had himself to rely on, and maybe Aleks hovering around him a few weeks after they initially met was a nicer luxury than he would admit. The being looked after, with Brett ruffling his hair and letting him stay there without expecting anything back, and Aleks being nicer to him than he was to Brett. Trevor wasn't used to it, couldn't imagine getting used to it either.

Things like that, man, they’ll  _fuck_ you up as a kid, Aleks said once. He had dark hair then, a constant look of something disappointed and upset on his face, but Trevor had learnt to trust him. A criminal, sure, but Los Santos bred that sort so often that Trevor wasn't sure he'd ever meet anyone with clean hands.

Aleks was away on jobs a lot, taking Brett with him once, and a woman showed up to look after for the week, not much older than him but more mature in the face. She was nice, introduced herself on the third day, like an afterthought, as Anna; an old friend of Brett's, from when she was younger and more trouble, when she couldn't tackle a simple robbery on her own. So, a criminal, too, but a better cook than Aleks and Brett combined, so Trevor wasn't exactly going to send her away.

Aleks and Brett came back on a Thursday, at sometime past five in the afternoon, Anna making Trevor dinner before she went home. There was a hard knock, a desperate grunt that sounded like 'Anna’, and the door was stumbling open as Brett pushed it open, Aleks bruised and bloody in his arms. There was a bullet or two in his chest, saltwater still in his throat, and Anna was rushing forward to help with a plate of food falling from her hands to the kitchen floor.

“Table!” she said, slight yell nearly disguising the shake in her voice. “Get me some water, a towel, and, God, uh-”

Trevor stood in the back, an old jacket of Aleks’ warm around him, and Anna was trying to stutter her way through her words, nerves getting the best of all of them for a minute.

“Anna,” Brett, a large hand on her shoulder, a look in his eye that was determined but hard to place. “Tell us what you need.”

Aleks was fine, his hand tight around Brett's wrist as he screamed, Anna with blood up to her elbows as she dug at the bullets in his skin. She was trying to tell him to calm down, Brett with his eyes closed and head tilted to the ground as he held Aleks to the table as he screamed. And, Trevor, face pale in the reflection of the glass door to his left, grabbing at his arms as he stared, unable to take his gaze away, and asking for the third time that moment, “Is he going to die?”

The way Brett looked at him was soft, unsure, and Trevor moved closer to them to hold one of Aleks’ shoulders down. Aleks was around the same height as him, but very thin, and his hair was drenched in sweat and sea as it tickled against the bare of Trevor's hands. He looked dead, passed out on the table with them all crowded around, Anna's eyes red but her gaze focused. And Brett, eyes open and moving from Trevor's pale face to Aleks’, the worry and concern clear.

Anna got three bullets out, washed the blood from her arms, hugged Brett goodbye, and left, and Trevor was too busy staring at Aleks to catch the small look Anna shared with Brett. Her smile, her lean in, her whispered, “Aleks isn't a kid anymore, he's been shot before.” Her pause, then hopefully look. “I don't want to get in trouble with Lindsey for telling you this, Brett, but she has big plans, for us. A new crew, if you're interested. Asher's already in, we just need you and Immortal.”  

Three months later, Trevor was sitting in a warehouse, Aleks by his side with their bodies warm against each other, and Brett, Lindsey, Anna, and Asher with them.

Aleks smiled at him, small but happy, and Trevor tightened his jacket further around himself even though the weather was getting warmer outside. It was cooler in the warehouse, near the ocean, and Lindsey was pressing a warm cup of decaf coffee into Trevor's hands before he could say no. She had a kind smile, young but still fairly older than him, and he knew enough about love to know what she was to Anna; what they were doing here, rings on their fingers, planning heists for the money.

Trevor proved a needed asset in the first few weeks, with his jacket barely brushing the person when he reached his long fingers into their pockets, and Brett clapped him on the back with a look that wasn't familiar. Anna said it's pride, that he used to look at her the same when she was his age and just getting by, and Asher shrugged, said he was probably tired, with his arms tucked into each other across his chest.

Aleks, a haircut in high demand, traced an unfinished tattoo on his right arm, stared at Trevor with a certain softness, and said Brett was proud of him. It stole the breath from Trevor's lungs in a way Anna saying the same didn't, Aleks’ gaze warm and his smile bright. This, Trevor remembered thinking, he could get used to. All of it, and all of them, and couldn't keep the grin on his face when Aleks moved to sit beside him, head falling into Trevor's shoulder.

Yeah, he thought, he could definitely get used to it.

So, he did; got better with a gun, better at stealing bigger things than wallets or change, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling that all this would end soon. They finished a huge heist, enough to set them up for life, and Anna put her cut into opening her own veterinary clinic, which Trevor knew half the time would serve as a guise for all the times she had to patch them up when they got hurt. She was good at it, other than the time a bloodied, eighteen year old Trevor was stumbling through her door with Asher and he would later learn from Aleks that they'd never seen her so frazzled.

Brett put his money into a bigger apartment, a room for him and both the two living with him, even though most nights Aleks ended up spending most of his nights in with Trevor.

It started with Aleks knocking in his door at two in the morning everyday for a few weeks, something about not being able to sleep and if Trevor wanted to talk for a while it might help. Trevor sat aside, watched Aleks sit on the edge of his bed, and tried his hardest to ignore the silence that settled between them that lasted long enough for Aleks to fall asleep right next to him. Then, eventually, Trevor started waiting at his bedroom door in the small hallway to call for Aleks, who would duck around Trevor's arm with an embarrassed smile as he walked towards Trevor's bed.

Them, as much a combined 'Trevor and Aleks’ as Lindsey and Anna were. Until- and, really, Trevor should've seen it coming because nothing good every stays, ever- Aleks packed his bags and left, told Brett on the quiet he had somewhere else to go. And, Trevor could see the silent concern in Anna's face when they were planning their first heist without Aleks, the way she kept glancing at him even though Lindsey was beside her, squeezing her hand.

“You good?” Anna asked, when Trevor's hands were shaking so much he dropped his glass cup. “You good?” when he fumbled during a practice, dropping her planted wallet onto his feet as she pretended to focus on something else. “You good?” when Brett got promoted at work, had to quit the crew for long enough for the suspicion surrounding him, and them, to settle. “You good?” when he made a new friend in an intern at the Los Santos newspaper named Jakob, and Jakob started spending most of his time with Asher. “You good?” when he met Joe, and Joe fit into exactly the space Aleks left.

Finally, her palm on his shoulder, the world filling around him with blurred colours and voices that made it sound like he was underwater. Brett, kicking him out with his stuff packed near the door when he got home, and Trevor standing in Anna's vet clinic with his breaths quicker than he could keep up, a stranger's dog pawing at his leg. Brett's text on his phone, an apology, an angry explanation, Lindsey sitting nearby watching with motherly concern. And, Anna, the pink of her nail polish a good enough focus point to bring him back into himself: “You good?”

“Brett,” he choked, felt his lips part as he tried to talk. “Brett's under investigation at work, they want to detain him and they're going to search his apartment and figure out we're all friends and we're all fucked, Anna, we're so fucked. They're gonna have prints on everything at the warehouse, trace things back to us, and then they'll throw us in fucking jail. We're going to get caught and end up in prison, and I can't go to prison, I can't, I'm-”

“Trevor, hey, slow down,” Lindsey, a hand in the air to catch his attention. “What's this about Brett? Jakob said it was fine, that they'd figured it out and we were all clean.”

Anna cast her a concerned look, her hand squeezing Trevor's shoulder to calm him. The dog was gone, the clinic suddenly emptier than it had been, or Trevor was maybe having a panic attack and events got confused, but he stared at his hands to focus, breathes slow. He was wearing one of Aleks’ old jackets over his own jean one, his shoes wet from where he'd ran a few blocks in the ran to get to Lindsey and Anna. They were the closer; the kindest, other than Joe, who already had enough on his plate for Trevor to throw this at him too.

“Aron,” he managed after a moment, his voice raspy. “They got Aron.”

Anna and Lindsey had a nice place near the clinic, with a spare bedroom that Asher stayed in before he got an apartment with Jakob. They, all sad smiles and fond gazes, offered him the spare bedroom, rent free, and he was too frozen in place to say anything. Too busy drowning in everything to say he needed somewhere, instead managed to say, with his stomach flipping over itself more than usual, that Jakob had already offered.

He ended up on the street again, eyes too burned with exhaustion for him to cry, and put his phone, with the battery almost drained, on silent.

.

“Get back here!”

Thursday, the greying clouds a sign of rain, and Trevor's wrist sore from where he'd had to pull it free. The man was still running after him, dressed head to tie in business clothes, slowed down by the briefcase clashing against his legs with every step; Trevor saw it and put it to the back of his mind, silently thanked whatever gods existed for the advantage. Businessman would eventually get tired of the chase, even with his wallet now tucked into Trevor's back pocket.

He's always been a quick runner, used to the ways of Los Santos and Aleks dragging him with him when the police showed up midway through their own personal fireworks display. Trevor was fast, but Aleks was quicker, so Trevor had learnt to keep up, to pull his legs up more as he ran, to keep his head up and not look behind him. Except, this time was an exception, taking the corner a little too fast as he glanced over his shoulder, the sudden collision with another man knocking both of them to the ground.

There was a flash of white-hot pain through Trevor's ankle, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor around him, and he was frozen in place for too long. The man he ran into was staring, his eyebrows downturned and angry, and Trevor was grabbing at the concrete to pull himself up before he knew what he was doing. Call it instinct, and call it Just Trevor when his fingers brushed against something cold and almost metallic, and he was pocketing the guy's keys before he knew any better.

Running, faster this time, another more cautious look behind only showing the man Trevor had bumped into. He was looking around for something, staring with an unimpressed gaze at his phone. Trevor pulled his attention back to the streets in front of him, knowing one of these days, running would only do so much; that, eventually, he'd be caught and no begging or crying would save him. Brett's voice, a memory of his hand brushing through a slightly younger Trevor's hair, and Aleks shoved at the back of both their minds: “I can't protect you forever, Trevor.”

These days, he spent most of his time back and forth between places. Jakob and Asher didn't have a spare room but they had a big enough couch for Trevor and his long legs to fit on, Lindsey's and Anna's spare room providing a nice sleep on the weekends usually, and Brett's apartment big enough for him and Trevor on the days the station wasn't monitoring their officers. It was tough, meant money was scarce for Trevor, and nights were spent bounced back and forth between apartments too often for him to have many possessions.

Mostly, he missed Aleks. Really couldn't be mad at how well Joe fit into the crew, how he texted Trevor almost every night to ask if he needed a place to stay, how he didn't leave even when things with the crew got tough. But, Brett was always taking calls he wouldn't explain and Anna mentioned once that Aleks was back in Russia with plans to come back. Mostly, he missed Aleks, in a way where he just wanted to know if Aleks missed him too.

The keys felt heavy in his pocket, like guilt he hadn't experienced since the first time he was desperate enough to pickpocket someone and watched from a distance as they frankly searched for what he'd taken. He remembers that, the tightness in his heart, turn of his stomach in unease, and the silent vow to only take from people who wouldn't miss whatever he took. Businessman was on the phone talking about his boat when Trevor reached over and slid his wallet right out of his back pocket, and Grocery Bag Man had a nice phone and decent clothes, but the keys in Trevor's pocket still tugged at him.

Brett was at work, probably hunting through files- or, at least, pretending to, because really the whole police schtick was a way of covering for their asses before and after a heist- to pass the time and pay the bills. It was a long way to walk, just as long if Trevor ran there, and he was already tired enough of that. Brett had set up an emergency funds account a few years back, just after Aleks left, for if Trevor ever needed money and he was alone; “You don't have to worry about paying me back, okay?” Brett had said, quiet, fond, “But, it's there if you need it.”

Trevor had his phone, and he paused against a wall out of the way of traffic to grab it, entering his passcode and calling for a ride. The station was an hour or two away, shorter by car but a fairly pricey trip regardless, especially only because Trevor wanted to see Brett. He'd know what to do, to disregard and erase any robbery reports he got if Businessman or Grocery Bag Man decided to call it in. At this point, the Los Santos police department was all but begging for a good enough reason to throw its street rats behind bars, Trevor being no exception.

“Brett, man!” he managed into the croaky static of the call, the cab he called pulling to a stop beside him as he tugged on the back door of the car. “Answering machine, okay. It's Trevor, I'm catching an uber to the station. I'll explain when I get there but I'm fine, I'm not hurt, I just need your help with something.”

The drive, admittedly, took longer than expected. The driver in the front mentioning something about a group of vagrants blowing an ambulance up on the main bridge, forcing traffic into one lane and blocking the roads. It was small talk, a thing Trevor always found too awkward and anxiety-inducing to partake in himself, but he offered a nod and a near whispered, 'Sucks, dude,’ that seemed to be acceptable response. Ramsey's crew, probably, he thought, and was partly glad about them taking the heat for a while. They were bigger, better prepared to handle it, and Trevor could recall a hundred times they'd escaped police custody in the past.

_Better you than me._

Trevor's phone buzzed in his hands, vibrating and pulling his eyes to it instead of the view of the bridge outside. It was Brett, his name popping up with a one sentence response to Trevor's call:  _not safe, meet me around the back_. Which, said more than Brett himself would've said in a call, always one to ramble and avoid the truth with long-winded explanations instead of truths. It's why they never sent him on negotiations, why Aleks, with his sharp humour and soft bluntness, was always the one to meet with other crews. And Trevor, young and soft faced, always by his side.

The station was in view, Trevor's hands tightening uneasily in the fabric of the seats as he waited for the car to come to a halt. It rolled slowly into a space, the man behind the wheel offering a polite thanks then silence as Trevor pulled open his door. Mostly, they avoided the station, unless it was emergency or you were Brett, because a whole gathering of people with guns and cuffs- and authority- was more than enough to keep them away. Trevor especially, with years of pickpocketing under his belt and a thousand mugging reports sitting somewhere with half accurate sketches of his face on them.

He walked across the busy roads, the traffic almost at a complete stop, and could see Brett standing in an alley, leaning against the side wall of the station. His expression was, as usual, unreadable, a coffee in his hands and his uniform slightly wrinkled where he'd rushed to get to work in the morning. When he saw Trevor, his face didn't brighten in a way Trevor thought it might've.

“What's so important,” Brett started, staring at Trevor as he got closer, “that you had to come all the way here and interrupt me at work?”

Trevor hesitated, the keys clicking together in his pocket and earning an eyebrow raise from Brett. They'd been in this situation a billion times before, with Trevor messing up and needing protection and help, and Brett providing it even though it could get him in trouble. Lindsey called him reckless once, said he needed to be more careful because years of running with a crew had made him less aware than he had once been. She was right, Anna had nodded beside her in agreement, eyes bright, and Trevor had shrugged because, really, what else.

“I got caught,” he said, quick, and Brett whistled as he inhaled a deep breath. The hard part was over, Trevor's heart going still when Brett glared at him, maybe angry but the usual hidden affection he had for Trevor hidden in his gaze. “But I swear I was being careful, Brett, I swear. “

“Not careful enough,” Brett said, like the easiest thing in the world. He sipped his coffee, making a face like it was too hot, and looked at Trevor over the top of the cup. “How bad?”

Last time, it had been taking from someone who had people with them, and Trevor cowering in the street next to the bar, back harsh against the brick wall as he tried to ignore the pain shooting through him everywhere. The yells, the hands grabbing and pushing and punching, his own screams echoing in his ears as he didn't even try to get away. That was the worst, only a few months back, and he kept expecting Aleks to show up and save him, miraculously. Instead, he stopped screaming and they got bored, and he had to pull himself up off the ground on his own.

That time, he avoided Brett and went straight to Joe, who he didn't know very well but who still let him in and got him ice. And, called Anna, who then called Brett. Trevor, sitting fully clothed in Joe's empty bath, holding ice to his cheek as he tried not to cry, painful winces torn from his throat when he tried to move. He'd been shot on a heist before, had his foot trapped under rubble, had Aleks  _leave_ , but he still thinks about that mistake every time he picks a new target. How easily it can all go wrong; what would've happened if he'd died that night.

And, Brett's voice, mad and loud as Joe told him, and the way his face had instantly softened when he'd followed Anna into the bathroom and seen Trevor cowered and small in Joe's bath. Brett, speaking through gritted teeth when Trevor said, “please don't be mad,” to say, “Who was it?” The anger not directed at Trevor was a relief, Anna looking between the two before resting a small hand on Brett's bicep and saying she'd give them a moment.

He remembers crying, choked sobs as he begged Brett not to be mad even as Brett said over and over that he wasn't, resting his warm hands on Trevor's shoulders. Anna's painkillers kicked in soon after and then he woke up in Brett's bed, in clean clothes and his whole body aching and sore. That was one of the rare occasions where Brett let him stay, said that Trevor staying for a few nights wouldn't attract any unwanted attention. Even so, Trevor was gone by the next night, saying he had somewhere else to go, because he knew Brett was just being nice.

This time, he'd let two people get a good look at his face, tripped and taken someone's keys in a busy street. He'd fucked up, sure, but no way near as bad as some times in the past, if he looked on the bright side. If he didn't, there were two people who could identify his face and a dozen or so more who had witnessed either of his pickpocketing attempts.

“They saw my face,” he offered, and Brett gave an amused huff. “I have a wallet and some keys, what am I supposed to do with them?”

“What you're good at,” Brett replied, and there should've been something malicious in his words but there wasn't, just a knowing tiredness.

In the dim light, the clouds overhead filtering in little sunlight, he suddenly looked much older than he typically does. The lines around his eyes, the small greying hairs amongst his tidy mop of black hair. This life, this business, ages you rapidly, but Trevor couldn't remember the last time he looked at Brett and noticed that. It felt wrong, like something he wasn't supposed to see, and it had him turning away, instead glaring at the small, fresh drops of rain on his shoes.

“That's, uh,” he stuttered, “that's some solid advice, man.”

Except, he was already reaching in his pockets to pass the keys to Brett, who noticed and shook his head. It meant this was a mess that Trevor would have to clean up on his own; stick the keys in a drain somewhere, melt them down, return them to the owner. It made Trevor feel ten times sicker than he already had, and he stuck them back into his jacket with a hesitancy characteristic of his own anxiety.

“Kid, Brett needs his space sometimes, yeah?” Lindsey's voice, from when Trevor was still sixteen and practically clinging onto Brett's sleeve. “Bother Aleks, this is the third time this week he's tried to set fireworks off in my apartment. Something tells me he could use the company.”

Trevor tucked his hands into his pockets, jean jacket since replaced with a thin green jacket made of a material best described as 'scratchy.’ Anna had given it to him for his nineteenth birthday- her and Lindsey's names scribbled on the tag on the bag- and he hadn't taken it off since. Asher said it made him look handsome, with a small smile, arms folded over his chest and Jakob hovering at his side. Brett was there, too, somewhere in the background, but he didn't say much. Never really does.

Now, Trevor stared at his wrinkled clothes, the way his skin sunk around and under his eyes with exhaustion, and wondered if he gets lonely. Joe has friends back home, he said that once, and they'll hopefully be visiting soon, if they want to. Trevor trusted him on that, even though it was mentioned in passing, maybe a way of deflecting the branding of 'lonely’ Trevor had given him. Brett, however, didn't mention any other friends or family.

Aleks, too, other than nights when Trevor was sixteen and awake fresh from a nightmare, and Aleks would sit next to him and tell him stories about old friends he used to have. A crew that fell through, that left him lost and showing up on Brett's doorstep like a kicked puppy; talks of a man named Jordan, a slew of others that Aleks didn't mention nearly as often. Trevor remembered Jordan, because Aleks said once that he'd tried to get back into contact with him and he'd given Aleks the cold shoulder.

Sometimes, after Aleks left, it would be easy to think maybe Jordan called Aleks and asked for his help, and Aleks had been all too eager to drop all his things and go to him. It would make sense, even though the mere idea of it was enough to keep Trevor awake and wondering, and sitting on Brett's balcony trying not to think about all the things Aleks used to say will one day fuck him up.

Give it time, Trevor used to think, and you'll be one of those things. Give it time, Aleks.

“Got enough for a ride home?” Brett, tilting his coffee back to get the last remnants of the drink. “I can lend-”

Trevor tucked his thoughts into the back of his mind, biting down on his bottom lip for a second, focusing on himself in the moment instead of the him of the past. “It's fine, Brett, I'll manage.” He spoke, and his voice shook, and Brett looked more concerned that he would dare let on.

.

Two days later, Trevor was twisting the keys into a door, pressing his ear to the wood to listen for any sound, and slowly pushing the door open. Even in the dark, he could make out the kitchen counter, his gaze focused on a small island parallel to the kitchen, with an empty fruit bowl. The envelope was folded in his pocket, riddled with lines and creases in the paper, and he was pushing the keys into it as quietly as he could.

Brett gave him the address after the guy, or Grocery Bag Man, as Trevor's brain provided, showed up to make a report at the station. There was something curious in Brett's voice when he asked why Trevor wanted to return something he usually kept, the pile of wallets Trevor has stolen taking up plenty of boxes in Anna and Lindsey's guestroom. Trevor, running on a lack of sleep and finding himself yet again without a place to spend the night, couldn't find a way to answer.

 _Guilt_ , he said, looking down at his hands to avoid Brett's intimidating glare. The truth, but not all of it, because it had been eating at him since before he'd seen Grocery Bag Guy while visiting Jakob at his work, and it was eating at him even more after. For whatever reason, his brain wouldn't let it go, even though he'd returned things before.

With a small apology note already tucked inside the envelope, the guilt he felt a few days earlier quickly dissipates, his eyes adjusting to the dark enough to notice his own scribbled handwriting. The:

_sorry?_

_trev._

.

Sleeping in an alley is the least of Trevor's problems, and he has a long memory of sleeping in places much worse than this. His phone is dead, everyone living too far away for him to try and walk in the dark; he already got jumped yesterday, now sporting an impressive black eye that's blooming purple around the edges. Dead phone, his already stolen wallet now stolen by someone else, and the crack of thunder overhead, and sleeping in this dark alley is the least of his problems.

“It's about to start pouring down,” someone says, “Just thought you might to know before you get pissed on.”

Trevor is looking up before he thinks better of it, and feels unease flood him near instantly when he sees who it is. Grocery Bag Man, hair loose and falling around his shoulders, a thick looking jacket around him with his hands finding shelter in its pockets. He's not frowning, and he doesn't look mad, and Trevor has never been more thankful that he's not a complete tool. The guy looks friendly, nice even, and Trevor returned his keys so he has no reason to get pissed.

Except, he does, but seeing as Trevor apologised, it'd be completely unjustified for him to, Trevor reasons. Completely unjustified, because Trevor did the right thing and Grocery Bag Man smiles, a little, and Trevor calms instantly. The interaction is nice, different, and Trevor let's his shoulders fall back instead of remain tense, an issue Brett has tried to correct more times than either of them could count even between them.

This stranger _, James_ , he introduces, says, “Need a place for the night?”, and Trevor tries to argue, he does, but James is insistent and Trevor is too tired to say no more than once. So, he says yes, and James tells him he can stay for a few days until he finds somewhere else to go.

It's ridiculous, almost, how quickly Trevor realises he doesn't ever want to leave. It's a small apartment, and James doesn't have any food in his cupboards, and he uses all the hot water when he showers in the morning for work, but his dog is cute, and sometimes he brings dinner home for them, and Trevor grows attached. He gets how Brett felt the night he picked Trevor up, took one look at him, but somehow Trevor is always the stray; always the one being given a new home.

When he visits Brett one of the nights James is working late, he realises he got too close, between James’ dog Ein napping on his lap during the day and James, and almost doesn't want to tell Brett about the person he's staying with. Brett will say he has to leave, that this new roommate of his is a civilian and it's too dangerous, or he's a planted undercover cop. Still, Trevor is washing Brett's dishes because God knows he won't do it himself, and it slips out. He's living with someone, someone he might like, and he thinks he might be getting too close.

(And, maybe, he knows he shouldn't. Brett cornered him in the kitchen later that night to tell him so, tired eyes unreadable but concerned. He stretched his hand out to grab at the counter, his other hand on his waist, and sighed, his voice soft and pained when he said, “Trevor, you know you can't.”)

Lindsey would say the same if she were there, Trevor knows that. She'd say that safety comes first, that he's young and it's not his fault but he needs to end it before one of them gets hurt. She'd be right, her and Brett, and the thought hurts more than Trevor thought it would've. Part of him, the foolish, naive, young part, assumed they would be happy for him, that he found someone of his own and he's not lonely. He's not like Brett in that big, empty apartment of his, or Joe, waiting for people who won't ever come to visit him.

“Brett-” Trevor tries, stretches an arm out and realises the shirt he's wearing isn't his.

“I'm saying this because I care about you,” Brett says, and the tone of his voice makes Trevor's eyes burn, his heart squeeze and ache painfully. “And because I don't want you to get hurt, Trevor. You  _can't_ do this.”

Trevor leaves, he takes his jacket off the back of Brett's couch and tugs it on with shaking hands, and glances at Brett to see him still in the kitchen, eyes closed and head down. He's tired, older now, as Aleks used to like to remind him, and Trevor hates feeling like he has to choose. His crew, his family, or James, who these days feels more like family than the parents Trevor used to have.

He goes home to James and doesn't bother changing his clothes when he falls into bed beside him, ignores James waking up and looking at him through barely open eyes. His hair is loose, frizzy where he's probably washed it recently, and Trevor inhales a shaky breath to try and push back the tears he's been feeling in the hour since he left Brett's.

“Bad day?” James asks, voice thick with sleep, still barely awake. He's concerned, tired, and he reaches a hand out to rest near Trevor, like he's there if he needs him.

“My dad,” Trevor whispers, because saying it makes sense at the moment.

James’ hand moves to grab his, eyes falling shut, because it's late and he has to be up early for work. Trevor stares at James, focuses on his small, deep breaths, and his nose twitches before he falls asleep, the room falling mostly silent. It feels more familiar than Trevor himself does some days, almost eight weeks having passed since James gave him a place to stay, almost two months since James found him alone in the alleyway.

This feels right, Trevor thinks, and Ein wriggles into the cold space between he and James, her nose tickling against his chin. It's nice, being here, and he knows eventually he'll have to cut his losses and leave before he can change his mind but he wants to enjoy it while he can. Enjoy the apartment and the closeness, and the small moments with James that are new but exciting, promising of the future. Something he hasn't had in a long time, so he wants to cling to it for as long as he can.

He doesn't plan to leave, he absolutely doesn't, but one day James is coming home and shaking, and Trevor is trying to ignore his own nerves. People get mugged in Los Santos all the time, this was an isolated event and everything will be fine, because Trevor hasn't pissed off any big gang members so there's no reason for them to go after James. Really, most crimes in Los Santos are isolated events, so it's nothing to worry about. Except, maybe Trevor sleeps a little closer that night, waits until James falls asleep then brushes his hands through his small curls.

Then, a few weeks later, James comes home angry, which is mostly just a front for how terrified he is deep down, because someone tried to shoot him. Trevor jokes about it, laughs, concentrates on the television instead of his own sweaty palms, until he realises just how scared James is, and something inside him softens. Something concerned, something that feels like love but is also something Trevor isn't in much of a hurry to name.

He doesn't plan to leave, not that night of all nights or even just at all, but he gets a text from Joe and stops breathing. His lungs fill up then collapse, all his blood rushes to his head, and he's dizzier than he knows what to do with. Joe's number, his name, the impossible few words he's sent Trevor clear as day on the screen of Trevor's phone and staring at him. It's been two years, and he spent so long waiting and wondering for this that his body moves on its own.

He's grabbing what's his and shoving it into bags, he's leaving the copy of the house key that James gave him in the drawer closer to the sink, and pressing his face into Ein's fur with a promise of his return. James is asleep, the shirt he wore to work still on, and Trevor pauses in the doorway, too afraid to leave but too afraid to stay. Ein barks, presses a paw with claws against the back of his leg, and the sight of James stirring sends Trevor to the front door.

Then out it, starting the hour's walk to Joe's with his things on him and his phone buzzing with a reminder of the message he hasn't replied to. It's too hard to look at it almost, but Trevor takes his phone out at the lights and can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, can recall every day he's spent longing for this exact moment to happen.

_Aleks is back - J :)_

Then, again, but this time from Brett. Trevor ignores a car beeping in the distance, his heart thumping loudly in his chest, and instead draws his focus to the message Brett sent him. It's only small, but Trevor doesn't need an explanation for it; it says all it needs to, and he wants to try and pretend he doesn't know what Brett is talking about, but it's clear as day.

From Brett: _they know._

 

 

*

 

_end chapter 3._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !the plot thickens!! thanks so much for reading All Of This, it's a lot. and, as always, my tumblr is @ohgavins if you're interested! thank u for the comments and kudos, i appreciate it a bunch  ♡. beta'd by me so any mistakes/typos are mine! sorry.
> 
> \- rachel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“Fireworks, huh?” James asks.
> 
> “Yeah,” Aleks says, and there's a split second where he looks like he might say more then doesn't. Any possible thoughts cut off by the television, a loud voice starting to speak and breaking the small moment they were having, drawing even Ein's attention to the 'breaking news’ banner flashing in blue and red across the bottom of the screen.
> 
> Aleks stares at it for a moment, then turns to look at James, his concern barely hidden by the lack of light in the room. His hands are tight in Ein's fur where he was scratching her, his hat crooked on his head, and James feels his breath stick in his throat like a bone when he catches Aleks’ gaze digging into his. It sucks to feel useless like this, it does, to only be able to sit here and know Trevor and Joe are out there, doing God knows what, and all James is doing is watching the news.
> 
> “Call Brett,” Aleks whispers, and his voice is so certain that James doesn't argue, wouldn't think of doing that anyway.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is,, so late and i have no Good reason for it. i just couldn't write and didn't want to force it so this took.... so long. i'm so sorry! 
> 
> but i really hope you enjoy this, as the last official chapter of this fic. the next chapter is a small epilogue that i'm really excited to put out and it's just sappy ot3 goodness. i promise! 
> 
> enjoy  ♡.
> 
> \- rachel.

* * *

 

 

**chapter four.**

 

**_* iv._**

 

 

Everything is too quiet, in a way that the absence of noise is loud and deafening, and has James searching for a way to fill it.

Aleks is sitting on James’ couch, Ein stretched across his lap with her tongue hanging clumsily out of her mouth. The news plays in the background, images of Trevor and his friends taking up the screen, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth; to see Trevor there, amongst photos of people that are criminals. James knows Trevor is too, but it's harder to believe that, to picture him with a gun in his hands or stealing from people.

In a sinking, aching way, James knows it makes sense. Maybe that's why he doesn't argue when Aleks starts telling stories, his soft, tired voice a contrast to the clear, calculated words of a newscaster playing loud through James’ apartment. James lets himself focus on Aleks talking instead of the bright screen, thinks about how much he doesn't know about Trevor, thinks about how much it must've hurt when Trevor and Aleks stopped talking.

“We used to, uh,” Aleks says, and the sound he makes is so genuine and fond that James doesn't press for more. There's a crinkle in the corners of his eyes, a smile nestled in each corner of his mouth, and he tightens his arms around his middle where they're folded over his chest as he laughs near silently. “We used to go and set off fireworks, at the top of Mount Chiliad. Cops were always just too late, though, you know. It's stupid to look back on, but Christ, that kid could run. That's usually my thing but Trevor, dude, he wasn't as quick but he was something.”

“Fireworks, huh?” James asks, amusement slipping into his words, and, oh. Oh.

That makes sense, that does, and James frowns to himself as he recalls a few moments that happened not too long. Like, Trevor, clumsily knocking over one of James’ dead plants on the windowsill because he was trying to climb out onto the fire escape to look at the fireworks he could see over the beach, or when he would Google stupid things like if fireworks would work in the rain.

“Yeah,” Aleks says, and there's a split second where he looks like he might say more then doesn't. Any possible thoughts cut off by the television, a loud voice starting to speak and breaking the small moment they were having, drawing even Ein's attention to the 'breaking news’ banner flashing in blue and red across the bottom of the screen.

Aleks stares at it for a moment, then turns to look at James, his concern barely hidden by the lack of light in the room. His hands are tight in Ein's fur where he was scratching her, his hat crooked on his head, and James feels his breath stick in his throat like a bone when he catches Aleks’ gaze digging into his. It sucks to feel useless like this, it does, to only be able to sit here and know Trevor and Joe are out there, doing God knows what, and all James is doing is watching the news.

“Call Brett,” Aleks whispers, and his voice is so certain that James doesn't argue, wouldn't think of doing that anyway.

_._

_“You ever plan on leaving?” Trevor, a forkful of food up to his mouth and James’ old jacket stretched across his lap. “Los Santos, I mean. I think one day I might, when I'm, like, older and more put together than I am now. I'd get if you want to go soon, James. It's nice here, dude, but it's not for everyone.”_

_James swallows, raises his gaze to stare crookedly at Trevor, who's watching the television like he's more interested in that than the conversation he started only moments ago. Truth is, James can't think about leaving when he knows just what he'd be leaving behind; meaning, Trevor, the boy sitting beside him somehow looking small. Ein would miss him too much, James tells himself. Yeah,_ she _would._

_The television is only metres away but sounds quiet, like it's been dipped underwater and the voices are full of water. He tries not think about it, tries not to notice how suddenly quiet and distant Trevor seems, chewing at his dinner quietly. They've had this talk before, when Trevor asked a few days after unofficially moving in if James ever planned on getting out of here. James had said yes, because it seemed easy, but he knows he's only fooling himself._

_Fooling himself, and hurting Trevor._

_But, saying he plans on staying forever is too big a commitment. He'll leave eventually to visit his mother, no matter how small a few days he'd spend there, and that trip might be years away but every time he envisions it, he imagines Trevor is still here to take care of Ein in James’ absence. It feels like it should always be them, that's all. The fact James sometimes thinks about taking Trevor with him, hiring someone to dogsit Ein, doesn't have to mean anything._

_“Yeah, man,” so, James lies again, ignores his throat catching the words like flies in a honey trap, “definitely.”_

.

James presses his phone to his ear, listens to Brett’s voice on the other side, and stands in the middle of his kitchen swallowing deep breaths, trying to focus on what’s being said. There’s a moment of quiet, of Brett yelling out to someone in the background, and James doesn’t recognise the voice that shouts back but it makes him feel uneasy, makes his stomach drop then rise back up and shake. He feels sick, can barely look at Aleks playing with Ein because it reminds him too much of Trevor, and because by now Trevor must’ve realised he’d made a mistake and surely, he was coming back to find James.

Whether Trevor decides to or not, James still doesn’t know what to do, between the stranger sitting on his couch playing with his dog, to Trevor somewhere out in the city with blood on his hands.  
  
“They’ll be looking for them,” Aleks says suddenly, he’s standing behind James’ couch in the dark, illuminated by the light of the television. Images of Trevor, Anna, Joe, and others, flash across the screen, a small frame dedicated to an old friend of Joe’s that James remembers, and looking at it is enough to give anyone a headache. “Now that they know what they look like, they can do one of those facial recognition things and find out who they are. It’s over for them, even Ramsey and his crew can’t help us out here.”  
  
“What will you do?” James asks, and can tell his voice is concerned because Aleks turns, tries to offer a comforting smile that barely lasts a second. It’s something, still, and James’ heart slows to an almost steady pace in his chest. “Leave town?”  
  
“Skip to a few cities, I guess. I’ll go back to Russia, and Joe has plans to go to Canada with Brett, but aside from that, I don’t know. If you want the honest answer, the last time this happened to us, it didn’t end well. I got out, and my friend Aron, but the others kinda went down with the ship, if you know what I mean. Dan, mostly. And Jordan got fucked up a little, but he was fine after. That was a bigger crew that time, so we were lucky. This time it’s just them, and half of them are in their early twenties, which is a pretty bad time to have your identity as a super criminal broadcasted to the whole world.”  
  
James nods, because he doesn’t know how to reply to that, and instead tunes back in to Brett, talking to someone with the phone held away from his mouth. It’s close enough that James can tell he’s talking, but too far away to pick out any of the words. It feels surreal, really, and James has been frozen in place with both hands on his phone for moments before he hears Aleks clear his throat quietly, and James looks up to find him staring. They’re in a similar boat, but Aleks has had more time to adjust or he’s just better at hiding his nerves than James is; James forgets to breathe, only for a few seconds, and Aleks quirks an eyebrow. It’s simple, and barely a reminder, but it still grounds James back into the moment, back into his body for long enough to realise Brett is talking.  
  
“Put me on speaker?” he says, and Aleks shuffles nervously where he’s sitting, one arm resting on James’ kitchen counter where he’s dragged a chair over to it.  
  
James does, and wipes one of his hands nervously on his thigh. “You wanna talk to Aleks?” he asks, and Aleks stands slowly, like he’s expecting he’ll need to talk to Brett.  
  
There’s a silence on the other end, the crackle of static, and James recognises a voice in the back of the call, someone shouting from behind Brett. It makes his hands shake, the one holding the phone tightening around it, and Aleks notices long enough to walk over and tighten his own hand softly around James’ wrist. A small act of solidarity, of understanding, because he has the same look reflected in his features that James does, even though he doesn’t quite know why hearing Joe has frozen James in place, again. He’s breathing this time, at least, but Joe says something again, his voice faint and barely though, and James releases a breath so loud that Brett is back, asking if he’s okay.  
  
“Joe?” James whispers, barely manages to find the word amongst his own panic. He glances at Aleks in the corner of his eye, hovering close and looking understandably confused, but still doesn’t push. Even when James says, loud, “Is that Joe?”

Brett is quiet, almost deadly so, and James can feel his fingers reaching to hang up, despite Aleks watching him. It's his eyes, dark, and the unspoken, 'don't, not until we find Trevor’, that has James paused in place. He'll wait, then, even though his anxiety is shaking his hands, and exhaustion wants to drag him to his bed to sleep all this off. It's been a rough few weeks, enough so that he can feel himself yawn as Brett shuffles the phone around on the other end, a deafening static pinching James’ ears.

“James?” It's soft, quietly spoken, and _Joe_.

The sound of his voice is enough to conjure up an image in James’ mind, of Joe with long hair and a baggy shirt, and both his hands pressing the phone to his ear. His light breathing tickles and statics, reminiscent of Brett, and James doesn't bother talking. Not until Aleks is closer beside him, a stranger but an old friend of Joe's, apparently, and he squeezes James’ shoulder in a small act of comfort that James didn't know he needed.

“Yeah, it's me,” he says, quiet, and his eyes shift to Aleks, eyes tired but his hand resting on James, still. It's nice, and reminds James for a heartbreaking second of how gentle Trevor was- _is_. “I came here for you.”

James isn't sure if the shake he feels in his knees is some kind of overreaction, but he's waited so long for this that he can't bring himself to care. All this time, he's been so close to Joe and not known it, and Ein's excited bark at his ankles reminds him that she's there. A furry replacement, not for Joe but for the emptiness- maybe, if he can call it that- and she's done a good job of being a distraction from everything. She's not a good guard dog, but she curls herself around James' feet and he wants to cry. Like, really cry. Like, fall to the ground with the phone pressed harsh against his ear, and scream, and sob, and try not to imagine what his breakdown would look like in Aleks’ eyes.

James is just a normal guy, with a normal job and a dog that wasn't originally his but now is so his he can't picture his life without her. A normal guy, with normal aspirations, who somehow got involved with all this stuff that's almost too large for him to wrap his mind around. Joe's a criminal, and he's friends with Aleks who is also a criminal, and he's friends with Trevor who is also a criminal, and so is James’ vet, and the police officer he's known since he arrived in Los Santos.

The inside of his stomach feels like a landing strip, this knowledge mixed with anxiety the plane coming in for landing. He thinks, if he wasn't so good at keeping himself together even at the worst of times, he would cry himself dry against his kitchen counter with his legs nearly tucked under him on the cold floor. He hasn't had the proper time to let everything sink in, more of the type to push it down and drag himself back to his bed every time the memories would becomes too much.

This is uncharted territory, and something that has him turning to look at Aleks, with his blonde hair and worry slightly shifting his features. And, yeah, James can picture him and Trevor as friends, can imagine them growing up together and laughing over the barrels of their guns. It's not jealousy he feels, he doesn't think he would be allowed to feel that anyway, not when Trevor was Aleks’ long before he was James’. Now, right now, he's no one's. But, if he has to make the choice, James knows he would pick Aleks time and time again, and maybe James isn't ready to say goodbye to him just yet. Or, ever, really.

Joe speaks on the other end, and James has tried to think about exactly how he'd feel in this moment but nothing measures up. He thought maybe he'd be complete, whole again because Joe, his _best friend_ Joe, was back in his life and okay. Instead, there's an itch in the back of his mind, with a capital T and his t-shirt on.

“James?”

“You could've fucking told me, Joe,” he breathes, catching Aleks shift in the corner of his eye. “You could've fucking said you were with these assholes, instead of taking your shit and cutting out on me. You have any idea how--”

“I'm sorry,” Joe says, shaky but naively confident.

It's what James has wanted, an apology and an explanation all rolled into one, so he can't be mad. Not as much as he wants to be; not when he considers it, and thinks maybe Joe did him a favour by cutting out on him when he did. It aches, like an itch he can't scratch, but he know Joe had to, know he tried his hardest to leave a trace for James to follow. He's not foolish enough to forgive easily, except it's Joe, his best friend and someone he feels like he's known his whole life.

Then, Aleks, “He had no choice.” It's so softly spoken that James’ brain takes a second to register that Aleks has spoken, and that he's got his own dying phone with its bright screen hanging out of his hand. He looks exhausted, maybe even more than James himself does, and James wants to believe him, even though he has no reason to. Maybe it's the fading dye in his hair that reminds James of the Trevor he first met on the street, or the blankness in Aleks’ eyes that reminds James that this man is a man but still younger than him.

It hurts. Seeing Aleks standing there, breath held, guilt on display, and an old contact picture for Trevor- dark hair, looking like the teenager James has imagined so many times already- visible on his phone screen. He's just as wrecked, tired from jet lag and only coming here to see the friend he left for longer than he needed to. It reminds James too much of Joe, how he must've felt packing his things and leaving without knowing whether he'd ever see James again.

For not the first time since all this began, James doesn't know what to do. Joe left- and deep down James will always be a little angry at that, a little hurt- but he wanted James to find him; he left the note, the clue, all he could.

“They needed me, man,” Joe offers, sounding broken through the speaker of the phone. James’ heart almost stops.

“And you think I didn't?”

The silence that follows is terrifying, is James holding his breath and Joe breathing out static into James’ ear, and Aleks in the corner still holding his phone and waiting for Trevor to reply. The sight makes James realise maybe he's wasted time with this, could've spent these hours going to find Trevor instead of standing in his kitchen arguing with himself. Aleks is staring at his phone, his hands are shaking around it, and he knows for a startling second exactly what he needs to do.

“Talk about this later?” he says to Joe, ignores Aleks moving his head up enough to look over at him. “There are things I need to do, Joe.”

On the other side of the phone, Joe's 'okay’ is far too understanding, too patient considering the situation. Aleks is there, now hovering closer, and maybe James tries to ignore the way his heart skips far too many beats for him to consider it normal. There's the sound of Joe's weary, but painfully optimistic, reply, and the shuffle of Aleks jacket rubbing against the kitchen counter James is nearly leaning against. Aleks is entirely too close suddenly, unsteady breathing evident, and he says something that takes too many seconds for James’ brain to process.

_'You love Trevor?’_

James lived with Trevor for months; got so used to him being around that his presence feels like a direct kick to James’ stomach. He's never really known what love is, because it always seems too out of reach for him and too unrealistic, almost, so he settles on focusing on work instead. In the logical part of his mind, he rationalises that he never really knew Trevor the way he wanted. In the hopeful, stupid, part, he thinks maybe you can measure how much you love someone in how much you miss them when they're gone.

And, in that case, he must love Trevor more than humanly possible. Considering everything, he thinks there's a small piece of him that is clinging to that stupid kid with the fading bleached hair. Maybe because he felt warm against James under the covers on _their_ bed, or he liked seeing him in his clothes too much even if it only happened a few rare times, or because things without Trevor feel wrong. Wrong, like, walking into a house where every detail is usually the same but this time, all the furniture has been shifted a few inches to the left.

Wrong, and uncomfortable, but enough so that James can't deny what Aleks asked. Guilt pools, because he knows Aleks is probably only asking because he loves Trevor himself, and it's hard to lie and say he doesn't want Trevor to choose him if given the choice between the two.

“Do you?” James asks, and becomes too aware of the world spinning under his feet.

Aleks swallows, nervously, like he's been caught out on something he thought he'd done a good job of keeping a secret. There's a moment where he shuffles his feet together, and tugs with his nerves full of anxiety at the sleeve of his jacket, pulls and stretches it over the palm of his hair. His voice is calm, but there's an undeniable shakiness in his words, when he says, “I asked you first, James.”

It's ridiculous, that's James’ first thought. They're two adults who are well into their twenties, and they can't stand in front of each other even as strangers and admit they like someone. James has liked Trevor since the first morning he woke up and the bed was cold as always, but there was a familiar form asleep on his couch with drool on their face and the television remote leaving button imprints on their cheek. That's when he knew he liked Trevor, but love is a whole other ballpark.

Loving Trevor was turning to look at him mid-laugh with something stupid playing on the TV in front of them, and the light of the sunset painting pretty colours onto Trevor's face. That's when James paused, fork in his hand, and focused on the oil in Trevor's hair, one of Ein's hair pressed on the collar of his shirt, and the reflection of the setting sun in his face. It's the first time James can remember looking at him and thinking, 'I could, I really could.’

Could fall in love with him, could get used to clumsy, warm limbs pressed together, could see himself with his fingers carding through Trevor's hair in a way that meant more than 'let me put this piece of hair back over this side where it should be.’

James has been in love before, years before he met Trevor. There was a puppy love crush, and a second love that broke his heart, and he isn't going to call Trevor his third love but he could be. In a terrifying realisation, eyes glaring at the young photo of Trevor still up on Aleks’ phone, James realises just how hard he's fallen. Enough to be willing to give up everything for Trevor in an instant, to say 'okay, I know you're a criminal and I should be afraid of you but I'm not,’ and then imagine kissing him the way James’ mind has now distracted him with.

It hurts even more, that he left. Except, James looks at Aleks with his pretty face and his hair tucked neatly under a cap, and can't blame him for that. Aleks has soft features and pale skin, and he moves in a way that demands James’ attention even when he's trying to focus on something else. So, yeah, Trevor left to find Aleks but James can't blame him, not when Aleks is his best friend, and not when he lifts his head and there's a certain softness in his eyes that James has never seen before.

He stares at Aleks’ phone until his eyes go blurry with the need to blink, then thinks about how much he wants to go to sleep and wake up in the morning with Trevor beside him. Trevor, for all he is warm and safe, is also one of the closest things James has come to know in all his time in Los Santos. His voice shakes, because he thinks about falling in love and how important honesty is, and he says:

“Yes.”

It's loud, almost, and unnerving to see how quickly Aleks moves to look at him, with a glint in his eye like he's not surprised but at the same time it's not what he expected.

The word, the confession, is a relief to say, and James can almost feel his heart break with how much he means it. Because, he loves Trevor, he's not even sure why that's a question. It's stupid and foolish, and James doesn't know if saying it will make it more or less true, will sometime soon come and bite him, but his chest feels lighter; air is easier to come by, his heart stops doing a marathon under his ribs.

Aleks doesn’t say anything, but there’s a thick silence that settles between them, and James waits for the ball to drop. It feels like there’s something he doesn’t know, like he’s made himself like look an idiot by admitting he loves Trevor when up until a few hours ago, he didn’t even really know who he was. It makes his hand shake where it grabs at the counter, and he closes his eyes, lets his chin drop against his chest as he lets everything settle. So much has happened, he just needs a break.

Beside him, Aleks laughs, a small two-syllable sound that sounds forced, but James looks and catches a seemingly genuine smile on his face. It’s not a happy expression, more one of disbelief, or like he doesn’t believe this is really happening but it is and he’s not mad, but he’s not exactly pleased with it either. It catches James’ breath in his throat, and he stares for longer than necessary at Aleks shuffling awkwardly in the space he’s standing. His hair is falling out of his cap, which is backwards on his head, and his jacket has slowly started unzipping to the point of being halfway down his chest now, and there’s a kind of air about him that James doesn’t recognize.

Part of it, the way he’s standing, as if he’s been in James’ apartment a billion times before and he knows this place like he knows the back of his hand. And, the small crinkle in his eyes when he laughs to himself, soft and quiet, but not hidden enough that James doesn’t hear it.

“Yeah,” Aleks says, but the humour is gone from his face, and his face drops in a way that makes James’ breath constrict. His phone lights up with a text message beside the hand he has settled on the counter, and James drags his eyes to it to try and read the notification but it can’t be that important, because Aleks is looking right at James, eyes pooling straight into his. When Aleks speaks next, his voice is soft, even and cool, and sad in a way that James can’t quite figure out: “That makes two of us, James.”

“Oh," James offers, silently cursing himself for his way with words. A small realisation dawns on him, and he examines the way Aleks ignores him, instead staring at a ring on his hand like he only now realised he's wearing it. “Does he…”

Aleks laughs, and it hits James that he likes him. Maybe if they weren't meeting under conditions like this, Aleks would be the kind of guy James would want to be friends with. They have more in common than only Trevor, because before Brett called, and before the news came on, Aleks had been reading an article about a video game James used to like to play. So, it sucks, that he sees Aleks moving awkwardly around the spot he's standing in like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, with his words. Like, James isn't standing right beside him thinking about what could've happened if they'd met under different circumstances.

“When he was younger, we were always together, you know? Dude, the kid was practically attached to my _fucking_ hip, you should've seen it. Once he stopped bothering Brett, we started hanging out more. So, yeah, I liked him, and he might've liked me, but it's whatever right now. We were always kind of, those friends who might be better off as friends. Even if one of us always wanted more.”

“You?” James asks, hates how his voice cracks, hates that the words sting even though they shouldn't

“Yeah, pretty stupid of me,” Aleks says, twists the ring off his finger and lays it flat in his palm. It looks old, and James can't drag his attention away from it. “Look, Trevor's a good kid, he works _really_ hard, seriously, but he's young. He's had it just as tough as the rest of us. He deserves better.” After a moment, Aleks sighs sharply, and after sliding the ring back on his finger, quietly offers, “I shouldn't have gone back to Russia.”

At that same moment, James’ phone chooses this moment to ring. It's loud, especially considering how quiet the apartment is, and Aleks glances over with curiosity, but in a way that shows he doesn't want to pry. James reaches out a hand to grab it, ignores the tightness of anxiety he feels, and finds himself frozen when he sees the contact name.

“It's Trevor,” he breathes, quiet and airy.

Aleks perks up at that, eyes widening with realisation and a soft excitement, and moves closer to James enough that he can see for himself through the small distance spanned between them. James hovers his hand over the answer button, tries not to focus on Aleks holding his breath beside him, and puts his phone on speaker so Aleks can hear it too. The silence of someone breathing lightly, and a hand that isn't James’ tugging nervously at his sleeve as Aleks leans to try and get a better look at the phone even though there's nothing there.

“Hello?” James tries, stares cautiously at Aleks in the corner of his eye. Aleks stares back, head tilted down slightly and short hairs loose and falling across his forehead. He looks rough, tired, but James knows he himself is half-awake right now and probably doesn't look much better than Aleks does. It's little comfort for his nerves, letting his greeting hang anxiously in the air.

“James! It's Trevor,” Trevor answers, his voice choked and quick, like he's been crying, maybe. “I’m sorry I left, I'm really sorry.” A pause, empty aside from the soft sounds of traffic in the distance. “I should've just- I should've told you, I know, I was stupid and I probably, like, fucked everything up but I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, it was all a mistake and Brett told me to be careful but I wasn't. And now everyone knows, and now you know, and I understand if you wanna be done with me or whatever-”

“Fucking Christ, Trevor,” Aleks says, his loud single intake of breath heavy with thankfulness. There's a slightly disjointed look on his face, but James turns and focuses on his eyes, how less dead they seem even in the dark.

James can picture Trevor on the other end of the call, holding his phone to his ear and paused in the middle of the street, how it must feel to hear his voice after so long. Then, he remembers Joe, how quick he was to shut him down, and the novelty of imagining how small and hopeful Trevor must be wears off. James just hopes, after all of this, Joe is kind and generous enough to forgive him for what's happened; for leaving him standing on the phone while James hung up.

“Aleks?”

Trevor does sound small, like the twenty year old he is for once, and he's standing still where he is because James can't hear the whistle of the wind as he walked anymore. It must be cold out again, or Trevor's teeth are chattering for another reason, and Aleks smiles so hard at his name being said that James almost feels as if he shouldn't be witnessing this.

“Hey, Trev,” Aleks says, voice sounding so different from usual. James doesn't hesitate in passing him the phone, retiring himself to the sidelines because he doesn't know if he wants to be in the middle of this.

The way Aleks holds the phone gently up to his ear is so uncharacteristic of him, despite James barely knowing him well enough to know this. Maybe Trevor has a way of bringing out the best in people, because James imagines if Joe had seen how James was around Trevor, he would barely believe it's him. Smiling his way through trying to be mad, teasing and pressing and warming up to Trevor almost as quick as he did to Joe once. Except, that was friendship; nothing more, nothing less, and James is smart enough to know what he and Trevor did had to be a little more than just that.

“... yeah,” Aleks is saying, when James manages to zone back into the conversation. “I'm here for good, okay? Unless you want me to go, because I will, just say the word, dude.”

“Really?” Trevor replies, and James can almost hear the smile in his voice.

“No fucking way, man,” Aleks laughs, closes his eyes and scuffs his shoes together, his amusement clear. Then, softly: “When will be home?” _Home_. “I can pick you up, Brett leant me his motorcycle the other day and I could come get you in, uh, a few minutes. I'd have to tell James but-”

 _Motorcycle,_ is what James chooses to focus on, can't recall why the word is so unsettling until it hits him. And, it hits him hard. Why Aleks looked so familiar and why he seemed almost angry when they'd first met at the fact that James was there, alive, and in his own apartment, and at him demanding to know where Trevor was. James tightens his hands in the front of his shirt, glances up at Aleks enough to see him smiling to himself, conversing with Trevor still.

_(‘A bullet presses itself into the concrete near his foot and his heart stops, then beats unhealthily fast as he tightens his hand in the plastic bag and sidewalks into the alley a few steps away. In hindsight, a bad idea, as a motorcycle drives past and he catches sight of blonde hair and a gun facing towards him, and the next bullet almost ends up tangled in the loose hairs framing his face.’_

‘ _“I just almost got shot. Some blonde asshole on a bike, almost scrubbed up my new fuckin' shoes.”’_

_‘There's a man standing there, finger on the light switch, the other on the trigger of a gun. His face is unreadable but something about him feels familiar, like maybe James has seen him before, with his blonde hair and young face.’)_

“Yo, you sure?” Aleks says, and James tries to ignore the gun sitting on the counter within arm's reach of both of them. “I could drive quicker than you walk, man.” A pause, the hint of a smile at whatever Trevor said on the other end of the cell. “It's not science, it's _fact_ , you idiot.”

The sun peeks through James’ cheap curtains, the news still on the television, and James’ heart still caught in his throat. His stomach sinks like it's waiting for something to happen but he doesn't know what, and his fingers tug at his t-shirt as he pretends he doesn't notice Aleks watching him subtly. There's a curiosity in Aleks’ gaze that James can't bring himself to find comforting or endearing, just making his mind try even harder to wrap around the fact that this man he let into his apartment, who he let pet his dog, almost killed him. Really, almost killed him.

It's not comforting, that's a thought that James and his brain keeps bringing up. Aleks could kill him if he wants, despite James assuming that maybe they were good; that they'd find Trevor, and James would track down Joe to talk in person, and they'd all be absolutely fine. So fine that the James in this imaginary scenario would hate the sudden normality of how okay and calm everything is. He'd hate it, with Ein in his lap and, hopefully, Trevor tucked against his side.

James sighs, rubs the above of his lip with the side of his hand, his index finger. That draws more unwanted attention, and James catches Aleks’ eyes when he glances in his direction, holds the gaze for longer than necessary until Ein jumps up and starts barking. She's excited, barks coming out more as happy cries for whoever is on the other side of the door, and James has a pretty good idea of who it is.

Aleks is standing there, eyes wide and surprised, almost, at James’ door, the sudden quiet a clear indicator that Trevor hung up. James finds his legs glued to the floor beneath him, and knows Aleks is waiting for him to move first; maybe he's trying to be polite, or maybe he's just as stuck in his spot as James currently is.

“You get it, man,” James tells Aleks, grateful he does because the soft, hopeful expression he gets in return is worth it. “Go say hi to Trevor.”

It's hard to be mad, it really is. Because, from what James has been told, Aleks spent a pretty long duration of his teenage years in Los Santos. A few years at the least is enough to change even the best of people into someone different, that's clear just from the months James has spent here, the articles of people who grew up in the best possible environment turning into thieves or murderers. Aleks has enough experience in this business, James rationalises, and if he had really wanted James dead, he would've been dead long before he could even notice Aleks nearby.

The door creaks slowly open, the hinges aching, and Aleks makes a noise that is entirely a breath, a deep one forced out, and James turns to them in time to catch Trevor stumbling through the door into Aleks. It's clumsy and Aleks has to stand on his tiptoes a little, but they slot together perfectly, and James awkwardly watches from the edge of his kitchen bench. He watches, wrings his hands about because he doesn't know what to do with them, and Ein bounces around his heels for the attention.

“Aleks-”

“I know,” Aleks says, and tightens his hands in the cold fabric of Trevor's jacket where he has his arms wrapped soundly around him. “Trust me, dude, I know.”

James clears his throat, more because he forgot to breathe for a moment than because he wants them to stop, or for Trevor to realise he's there. Both of them shake in the cold, and Trevor lifts his head from where it was tucked against the nape of Aleks’ neck to find the source of the noise. James, standing a few metres away, suddenly all too aware of what's happening. Trevor, a criminal, in his apartment and his face pressed into every minute of every news program, standing in James’ apartment after choosing to leave.

“James?” Trevor breathes, so airy and light it could be easily missed with less careful ears.

Aleks pulls his arms slowly back and settles his hands on either side of Trevor, tightening around Trevor's biceps comfortingly before he lets go, drifts his arms back to his own side.

It makes James wonder, as bad as the thought is, if Trevor will still choose to leave. If the cops will figure out he's been staying with James and come here to arrest him, or if they could stay in this apartment forever and be safe, or if Trevor already has a ticket with his name on it to a place that James can barely pronounce the name of. James can't uproot his whole life for this boy, he tries to tell himself, but if Trevor asked then he would, he would pack his things and quit his job and go.

If that meant having Aleks around too, then James would be okay with that. Just the three of them and Ein, and James’ unnamed cat, trying to learn to coexist. It would be better than being alone for the rest of his life, or having to once again get used to how cold and lonely an apartment of one is. At this point, James would sooner move back in with his mother before he would stay here on his own. Meaning, he thinks at this point he might just follow Trevor anywhere, pretty much.

“Hey, Trevor,” he manages, tries to catch his breath when suddenly Trevor is close and pulling him in for a hug that is warmer than James would've initially thought. It's comforting, and safe, and brings back memories of accidental spooning the first few nights after they started sharing James’ bed, and of falling asleep against each on the couch late in the afternoon. It feels like that, like familiarity.

“I'm sorry,” Trevor says, again, and his voice sounds genuine, so much so that James doesn't hesitant in pulling him closer. “Really, dude, James, I should've told you. That's not fair, to not tell you and have you find out that way. Seriously, I-”

“Ein missed you,” James interrupts, focuses on the dog jumping around their legs, sniffs just once. “And I adopted a cat.”

Trevor doesn't say anything at first, but his arms are certain and present around James, and Aleks hovers in the background with an expression James can't decipher slightly twisting his features. They're content like that, standing in the cold and the light of the rising sun, until Ein's barking becomes louder, more insistent, and Trevor is slipping away from James to lean down to her. Her face brightens, her paws pressing wherever they can, and she nearly jumps into Trevor's lap, earning a small, amused laugh from Aleks.

“Thanks for almost killing me, by the way, you asshole,” James says, Trevor lifting his head to glance between the two standing near him, each leaning on a different piece of furniture. “I'll accept your apology when you decide to fucking give me one.”

“I don't know,” Aleks quips, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, and his tone more obviously playful than James’ was.  “Thought I might just not apologise, you know? Water under the bridge and all that shit, probably best for you to just let it go, James.”

There's a sudden breach in his smile, a drop in his amusement, and James can tell he really is sorry. It's not an apology or the explanation James secretly wants, but Aleks is genuine, and James wants to believe him so he does. It's what Joe would do, he knows, and tucks a small reminder into the back of his mind to call him when he gets the chance; to apologise to Joe himself, and to make up for all the time they've lost the past couple of months. Joe deserves that at least, and James figures he might too.

“The others are going to Colorado, to a safehouse Asher has, if you're interested,” and it isn't an offer, or an offhand comment, it's Trevor glancing up at James from the ground, Ein in his lap, and saying, 'hey, come with me.’ And, that, _that_ , would be really stupid of James to say no to you.

Aleks looks at him expectedly, and Trevor smiles at James, warm and with his hand tangled in Ein's short hair. This, James can live with. Even if it means living somewhere foreign to him with a group of people who are well versed in crime, and well out of simple journalist James’ league, but he thinks he could get used to it. Takes a mental image of Trevor kissing Ein on the small of her forehead, and Aleks leaning against the back of James’ couch with his arms folded over his chest, eyes on James, and really, really could.

 

 

*

 

_end chapter 4._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 2am and i hate reading my own writing so apologies for any typos! i did my best to make sure there weren't any but some always manage to slip by :(
> 
> thank you for reading and following this fic, and feel free to leave a comment if you want! it's always very appreciated.
> 
> also ! follow me on tumblr @ gavinsaleks if that's your thing! or even if it isn't and you just wanna talk or something! ty!!  ♡.
> 
> \- rachel.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ready to sell your life away for a bunch of criminals?” Aleks says, quietly, but the grin slowly coming to life at each corner of his mouth is less amusement, more gentle happiness.
> 
> “Yeah,” James says, truthfully.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**chapter five.**

 

**_* v._ **

 

 

_then._

 

 .

 _“The others are going to Colorado, to a safehouse Asher has, if you're interested,” and it isn't an offer, or an offhand comment, it's Trevor glancing up at James from the ground, Ein in his lap, and saying, 'hey, come with me.’ And, that,_ that _, would be really stupid of James to say no to you._  
  
_Aleks looks at him expectedly, and Trevor smiles at James, warm and with his hand tangled in Ein's short hair. This, James can live with. Even if it means living somewhere foreign to him with a group of people who are well versed in crime, and well out of simple journalist James’ league, but he thinks he could get used to it. Takes a mental image of Trevor kissing Ein on the small of her forehead, and Aleks leaning against the back of James’ couch with his arms folded over his chest, eyes on James, and really, really could._  
_  
_ “Colorado?” James repeats, and Aleks laughs softly, pushing himself off where he's leaning to go over to Ein. “That's hours away, are you-”

_“Just say yes,” Trevor says, quiet but confident, and the gaze Aleks casts at James is overly expectant, as if he is trying to will James into coming along whether he wants to or not. And, James definitely wants to. “It'll be you, me and Aleks, and my other friends. And Joe, he's coming with us. Or, like, it'll be 'us’ if you say yes. So, say yes, James. Please.”_

_“Yes, okay, yeah,” he manages, Trevor's unsureness breaks into a small smile. Even Aleks, his eyes focused on Trevor who's focused on James who is focused on Aleks, looks up suddenly to meet James’ gaze, gratefulness and acceptance taking over for his previous concern. Concern that James would say no, maybe, and Trevor would be hurt by it after all he's done. Which, is exactly part of the reason why he can't say no; he wants Trevor around, going to Colorado means he gets that. “When do we leave?”_

_Trevor pulls his phone from his pocket and gives it a careful once-over, before lifting his head to James. Even now, he still looks unsure. “Asher said tomorrow. Brett's driving so we need to meet him at Lindsey's.”_

_“You ready to sell your life away for a bunch of criminals?” Aleks says, quietly, but the grin slowly coming to life at each corner of his mouth is less amusement, more gentle happiness._

_“Yeah,” James says, truthfully. Joe, Trevor, Brett, Asher, Anna, Lindsey, and Aleks- the choice was already made for him when he thinks about it._

.

.

.

 

_now_

.

 

Colorado is beautiful, with mountain landscapes and snow, and the wood of Asher's cabin a nice sight to wake up to every morning.

It's the same routine every day, pretty much, and James can't exactly remember when he, Aleks and Trevor decided to sleep together- literally, curled up with limbs entwined under the covers- but it happened. Aleks and Trevor used to share a bed years ago, finding it difficult to sleep alone, and up until a few months ago, James and Trevor would wake up in the morning cuddled together in the safety of James’ bed in Los Santos. It just happened, the three of them asleep, and James isn't entirely sure it was a conscious decision on their parts, but rather a natural development. Because the nights here have been cold since they arrived, and there aren't enough rooms to have their own, and how would they even split apart anyway.

James goes with Trevor, Aleks goes with Trevor; everyone knows that.

Morning approaches steadily over the trees, blinds James temporarily with the brightness of it all, as he feels Aleks nuzzle his face against his neck. He's an early riser even though he tries not to be, though years of habit have made it impossible for him to make too much of an effort to wake up late. Trevor stays in bed all day sometimes, until James is pulling open the blinds and Aleks leans over him with a mischievous grin. They, them, _this_ , just happens. After all his time in Los Santos, James doesn't bother denying himself of it, not when it's nice to have the comfort and familiarity, and the guaranteed warmth of their bodies in the freezing winter.

He and Aleks spend more time together when Trevor is cocooned in bed, and their moments consist of cups of coffee shared at six am when everyone else is asleep. Exhausted and barely awake, but not asleep enough to not smile lazily at each other and lean on one another as they make their way outside to sit on the porch and watch the way the world comes to life. Living with Joe almost a year ago was never like this, especially not when that one day, Aleks’ hair a half flattened mess, his coffee bitter on his tongue, and his face crowding James’. It was half past six, Anna moving about in the kitchen inside, and the tips of Aleks’ fingers soft as they gently touched James’ jaw. They kissed, slow and tired, but it left James’ head spinning for days.

Every time Aleks looked at him, James’ heart sped up and his cheeks felt warm, and that was something he already knew from months of getting used to Trevor holding his hand or falling asleep with his head in his lap. Really, James doesn't know how it happened, just that it did, and it took months to become something he would slowly pick up on, but it became something.

None of them, admittedly, were too sure at first, nervous words and touches, and wearing less clothes to bed, going from sleeping with space between to so close that James could hear their heartbeats, feel their breath on his bare skin. So, it happens. Trevor is the shyest and the youngest, sandwiched between James and Aleks most nights, his quiet, 'goodnight, love you,’ softly returned by them both.

Other nights, Trevor stays up late to watch a film with Lindsey and Anna, or play a video game with Asher, or go for a late night walk around the property with Brett. Those nights, Aleks will fall into bed besides James and move close until his front is pressed to James’ back, with little room to move as his arm slides across James’ stomach, Aleks’ face burrowed near his shoulder. The moments they have together are nice, although not rare, but James’ favourite is when Trevor is there, and they talk for hours in the dark, laughing at bad jokes and fondly saying goodnight when they collectively decide they're tired. It just reminds James of how lucky he is, which Joe has said a few times about himself, to have all of this. A house, friends, Ein, and Trevor and Aleks.

James doesn't know entirely what they are to him, so he decides on 'partners’ and tucks that into the back of his mind for later. He and Aleks have kissed once, he and Trevor twice, and they've passed the point of fondly muttered 'I love you’s’ as they fall asleep. It's mostly Trevor who says it, and James and Aleks who say, 'yeah, you too,’ in response.

It was James who kissed Trevor first, though. When they were walking Ein along the quiet roads away from the cabin, and Trevor leant James his jacket because he wasn't cold, and James didn't know how to properly thank him so he grabbed the front of Trevor's shirt in his hand and pulled him down enough to kiss him. Trevor was flustered and blushing, and James was struggling to compose himself. But, it was nice. The second time, when Trevor initiated it, led to a small silence, their eyes searching each other's in the small distance; trying to decide if they should tell Aleks, or if this was only something they all did sometimes, no strings attached.

Really, they didn't have to. Aleks was affectionate to the point of James knowing he knew, or at least felt the same, and, God, James wishes it wasn't so complicated. That he could stand on a table and yell to the whole world that he's been in love with Trevor for longer than what's good for him, and he's starting to foster those same feelings for Aleks, so maybe this will have to be an all three of them thing.

Still, weeks pass and they don't talk, though Aleks falls asleep against James whenever they settle down to watch movies, and Trevor sits on the floor between James’ legs so Aleks can play with his hair. So, maybe they're all smart enough to figure it out on their own. Them, and what they do, despite how hard it is to properly work through all the emotions and thoughts. James doesn't know how to go about it, and apparently neither do Aleks and Trevor; it makes it more difficult for James to feel any particular way at all without a little bit of guilt slipping in. But, it feels right in a way nothing else has for a long time, so James doesn't bring it up, and they fall asleep together and slip easily into a routine so domestically _them_ it nearly hurts.

They go to sleep together at the same time most nights, he and Aleks wake up with the sun and sip watery coffee on the porch, then they say good morning to Anna and Lindsey as they head into the forest for their morning walk, and move inside to clean, play with Ein, eat breakfast with Brett and Joe, knock on Asher's door to let him know they're awake, and go to their room they share with Trevor to open the curtains and pull off his blanket. Every morning, the same thing, maybe because they've gotten so used to how nice it is to have a steady life for once that they don't make any effort to change it.

James lets himself get used to it over time, gets to reminisce over old times with Joe and forgive themselves and each other for what happened. It's the closure James thought he'd never get, and the love that he never could've predicted; Aleks and Trevor, who are younger but just as permanently tired, but James loves them. He's loved Trevor since they met, and he and Aleks easily clicked after spending time together.

James doesn't know how to describe it, other than love, natural and right and nice, because when he thinks about it, his words fail him a little. Love, that happened naturally but felt right and nice. That's what he thinks, with Aleks mumbling a greeting into the heat of the skin on James’ neck, and Trevor gently snoring where he's tucked behind Aleks, Aleks cuddled comfortably between them.

“‘Morning,” Aleks manages, after a moment or so of trying to find his words while still half asleep. His hand curls in James’ shirt where it rests at his stomach, and Aleks’ nose is cold as his face dives further into the crook of James’ neck in an attempt to shield his eyes from the sun. They forgot to close the curtains last night, and it's a little blinding, Aleks laughing soft and airy into James’ skin.

It's sometime past six if James has to guess, which is the same time he and Aleks usually wake up and drag themselves out of bed at. Something about this morning feels different, like the air is a little heavier and Aleks is pressed closer, warmer to James that he usually is. James rules it down to the cold, and he isn't exactly going to complain about it, not when his heart is tight in his chest, Aleks’ hand on his stomach shifting softly with his breathing. Their breaths are synchronised, James’ hand moving to softly rest on the one Aleks has tucked around him. This, James could get used to, on top of everything else he's already grown accustomed to. Like, Aleks pressing kisses to the top of his head when he wakes up first and thinks James is asleep, and Trevor lying in front of James on the nights he wants James to cuddle him.

They don't say it with words, but they know what the small things mean.

“Dude, it's fucking early,” Trevor breathes, his words soft and gently hissed into his pillow. Aleks laughs and the warmth is pure heat against James’ shoulder.

“Go back to sleep, Trevor,” Aleks says, and James hums quietly in agreement. He's too tired for talking just yet, though he'll find his words eventually, when Aleks starts to get up and James moves to follow. “Don’t be such a baby, dude, we'll come and wake you up later.” Despite the assumed harshness, Aleks’ voice is nothing but fond, which makes James smile to himself as he stares out the bedroom window.

Trevor groans, but tugs at the blanket bundled loose in James’ hands and tugs it over himself for the air is cold. Some mornings it's hard to get up, because Trevor looks pretty in the morning light, his slightly shorter than usual hair falling against his pillow, his face youthful with sleep. Those mornings, and the ones where James wakes up curled around Trevor's body, Aleks close to James’ back as he returns the sentiment of touch. This morning, at six, James is warm and comfortable, almost too much so to find the strength to convince himself to get up. Aleks is so close, Trevor trying to fall back to sleep, and _surely it wouldn't be so bad to stay here and not get up early just this one-_

“Don't have to get up,” Aleks says, as though he's reading James’ thoughts. “I'm okay with sleeping in.”

James has a surreal, bizarre few seconds of being too aware of where he is: in this bed with Trevor and Aleks, after running with them and Joe and their friends because the police somehow caught wind of their locations. Criminals is a word James has heard them been referred to a few times, and it's not entirely wrong, but it doesn't form properly in his mouth. He's in bed with them, and has been here every night and every morning for a few months, and a few weeks with Trevor before that, and he's kissing them. That's not a big deal- they're adults and they can do what they want, a kiss means nothing, really, except it does and it's a panic inducing thought- but it is a big deal that James can't ignore how he himself feels about that. It's big and bright, and he thinks too much about kissing them again. A lot.

“Stop thinking, go to sleep,” Aleks whispers, let's his lips brush James’ ear as he leans close to whisper. “Sleep, James.”

It's hard not to listen to him, a feverishly hot kiss lingering briefly on his neck when Aleks puts it there. James concentrates too much on that kiss, on other things, too, and closes his eyes until the sun is no longer bright enough to shock him into being awake.

.

By the time James has dragged himself out of bed later than usual, Aleks is still in a deep sleep, Trevor pressed close to him as their breaths synchronise softly in the quiet of the room. The sun has raised high enough to flood only part of the room, away from the bed, with light, a nice yellow against the cabin walls. It's pretty enough for James to sit on the edge of the bed towards the window letting himself take it in, focus on how different it is from the miserable lack of light and rain that became all he knew in Los Santos.

Aleks mumbles something, not awake just yet, and his fingers reach out and curl in the sheets where James usually lies. James pushes it to the back of his mind, but stares for a moment to let himself reel in how nice this feels; it's worlds away from the life he was living only a few months ago, but he loves it all the same. The companionship and friends, and the falling asleep knowing he wouldn't be alone when he woke up because he has someone, two someone's, and it floods his stomach with a gentle warmth of recognition.

In the kitchen, he can hear the telltale sounds of Brett making his lunch, so James drags himself out of his room and out the door, closing it quietly behind him. Brett's standing there, wearing a hoodie and a hat, and Ein is picking at food he must've given her when he let her out of James’ shared room. She gets antsy lying in too late, Brett's done him a favour, but James finds himself constantly unsure of how to talk to him. After knowing him for weeks as the uncaring, rough police officer, and having to get used to the person he really is. It's nice, actually, but hard to separate those two identities sometimes.

“You have a late night?” Brett asks, voice shocking James into a state more awake than before. “I fed your dog, she was crying at the door when I got up. Probably used to eating earlier, and you guys weren't up yet so I figured she was hungry.”

“Yeah,” James says, intelligently.

Brett laughs, and his whole face brightens, as he shuffles about in a drawer looking for something. He glances up at James with a raised eyebrow, before pushing the hot cup of coffee sitting on the counter towards him. It's wrapped in a plain white mug, black with a few sugars the way Brett likes it, and James almost refuses out of politely before he realises how tired he is, and how much he needs it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, pulling out a chair at the counter on the opposite side of Brett. The coffee is warm in his hands, shocking lost warmth back into them. It's cold, and it would be colder if Brett wasn't so good at making sure the heat was on. “You making breakfast?”

Brett looks up at him, still pushing at whatever's in the drawer before deciding it's not worth it and sliding it slowly closed. There are bags under his eyes, thick and tiring to even notice, and James feels guilty as he sips at the surface of the coffee that was originally Brett's. They both need it, granted, but Brett's too nice to have not offered it to James; that's just who he is. Trevor is usually the recipient of that, and Aleks, too, but James has heard a little about their history and understands it. It's as natural as anything, the familial relationship Brett has with the others after years of knowing them.

Anna has mentioned on a few occasions that Brett has a habit of taking young kids off the street and parenting them. She was sixteen and caught in a gang fight, and she could hold her own well enough to escape. He found her a few blocks away, nursing a gunshot to the thigh that she was trying to fix on her own, and he'd whisked her away to his apartment and told her she could stay as long as she needed. They were all younger then, she said, and she met Lindsey there so she's grateful.

Aleks, too, but he's quiet about it in a way that makes James too curious for his own good. Lindsey says, “He was with another group when he was younger, before all of us, and it didn't end well. But you didn't hear it from me.” James remembers in the past, the night they decided to leave, how Aleks had mentioned a few people whose names James hadn't recognised. He'll find out one day, likely, so he can ignore it for now; it's hard to ignore, though, when it's always right there.

Brett turns to the counter behind him, his back to James, and grabs something from under a cloth before settling it on the table in front of James. He's wearing an unreadable expression, though it could just be because he's tired.

“Toast,” Brett explains, slow, and smiles with amusement as James glances up at him unimpressed. “Eat, I'll make the other two food later.”

“You look like shit,” James says, before he can stop himself. Brett laughs again, and James ignores the cold dryness of the toast as he rips at a corner and puts it in his mouth. It's simple but his stomach growls, reminding him that he's hungry. Brett's smile doesn't fade as he moves over to the fridge, presumingly trying to find something to eat before giving up and turning back to James.

“You ever looked in a mirror?” Brett asks, teasing. “I'll sleep after this, now eat your toast and get out of here. Anna and Lindsey wanted to know where you were, if you can be bothered to find them.”

James takes another sip of his coffee before sliding it back towards Brett, the silence saying what he doesn't need to. He's awake enough to take his plate and put it on the ground at his feet for Ein to finish off his food, even though Brett gives him a cautious look. Understandably, because James always eats breakfast, they all do, but it's not a big deal, really. Maybe the fact that Aleks isn't up yet and James is all alone has Brett overthinking everything a bit too much; they're up together every day, James being on his own out here makes him a little more unnerved than it should.

He manages a tired goodbye as he takes his jacket off the edge of the counter and makes his way outside where he can hear the joy of Lindsey's laughter. Her and Anna stay out on the porch for hours, curled up with tea or hot chocolate, wrapped in blankets and oversized parkas. James almost takes the time to wish he has what they have but, before he hears Aleks’ voice behind him and his shoulders relax, the unusualness of his lack of company dissipating for a moment. Aleks isn't coming over to him, instead is kneeled where Ein is wagging her tail at him, but it's comforting. James is still getting used to the others, that's all.

“Hey,” Anna says, as James steps outside in her view. She's got the ghost of a smile playing on her lips, her nails painted pink where her fingers are clinging to a mug, Lindsey on her right and partly hidden from James’ view. “I wondered where you'd gotten off to, didn't see you this morning.”

“Slept in,” James offers, smiling politely at her when she directs her soft grin towards him. “Figured it couldn't hurt, you know.”

Lindsey nods, and leans with cheeks red from the cold to press a kiss to Anna's exposed cheek before gently stealing Anna's drink. They're giggly and happy, and there's snow sprinkled in their hair so they must've gone for a walk already, or played in the snow. It's fresh and heavier than yesterday, he wouldn't be surprised.

“Take a seat,” Lindsey offers, and her voice has no business sounding that pleasant when James looks as tired and miserable as he does. “We were just talking.”

“About the snow?”

Lindsey's smile doesn't waiver, but there's a blank disappointment taking advantage of her features for a few seconds too long, James instantly recognising it. At first, he worries that he said something wrong, which he seems to accidentally do a lot with these people who he's only known for a handful of months. There's a clear boundary of things they talk about and things they don't, and James is constantly adding things to each list; Aleks has more in the don't, Trevor more in the do, and the others are pretty evened out.

“We were supposed to get married this spring,” Anna offers, and Lindsey squeezes her hand. “Before we got found out. We booked the venue and got everything together for it, and I told my sister, but we can't really now.”

“It's paper and a ring,” Lindsey says, quick, and convincing but more in a way like she's trying to convince herself more than them. “But, we spent years planning and it'll never happen. It's shitty, but we have each other. That's what matters.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” James replies, genuinely. He avoids eye-contact, electing instead to glance out at the forest surrounding them, and the white of thick snow covering the ground. It's pretty, but it would be better with Aleks and Trevor here. “If it helps any, I thought you were already married. Like, already fucking hitched a few years ago. You just have that vibe, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Lindsey says, and James takes that as his cue to leave and go outside. Aleks hasn't bothered to come outside so James assumes he's trying to wake Trevor up, which is a difficult task when the sun refuses to fully come out. Meaning, that the lighter it is outside, the more likely Trevor is to be able to drag himself out of bed; it makes sense, mostly, and James knows that Aleks isn't the most tactile at the whole waking people up thing. He's in your face, gently shoving and pushing and pulling at blankets, which Trevor will scream and laugh at but not get up to.

James waves to Asher and his boyfriend as he passes them in the kitchen with Brett, noticing that his bedroom door is opened slightly. Not much, but enough that he can see the end of the bed, Trevor and Aleks sitting silently with their feet planted on the ground. James almost feels like he shouldn't be watching, because Aleks whispers, “I missed you,” and Trevor makes a choked noise as if he doesn't know what to say.

Aleks lifts his head from Trevor's shoulder and leans forward until their lips are softly pressed together, and James hears himself and the forest sigh in unison.

.

“D’you reckon would could get fireworks here?” Trevor asks, his voice slurred by a little alcohol, James brushing his fingers through Trevor’s fringe as he settles his head in his lap.

Aleks laughs, his legs tucked up to his chest as he sits next to James’ legs on the floor. He has a bottle half raised to his lips as he does, and James finds himself smiling against his will; remembers all those times Trevor would sit on his windowsill watching the fireworks over the beach in Los Santos, and the things Aleks shared with him the night they met.

“You think they work in the snow?”

“You're lucky we like you, Trev,” Aleks says, but James can hear the smile in his voice, the overbearing fondness.

“Only one way to find out,” James offers, and Trevor smiles at him, his hand grabbing at his in a gesture that sets James’ heart on fire.

.

The snow this morning falls thicker and heavier than usual, more than the snowfall of yesterday that left blankets upon blankets of soft white across the yard. James expected the winters out here to be more slush than anything else, so he’s grateful when he wakes up to Trevor’s hand in his hair, the sun high in the sky. He slept in, again, and Aleks isn’t beside him so he’s probably the last to get up; he shouldn’t feel guilty for not getting up early, but he does. It’s weird, really, to get so used to waking up with him, that waking up and him not being there rubs James the wrong way; he can’t explain it, but ‘wrong’ and ‘like an alternate universe’ sound about right.

“Snow day,” Trevor says, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. “Brett and the others went for a walk to see if the pond is frozen over. And, uh, Aleks… Aleks is waiting outside the back to hit you with a snowball. I told him I wouldn’t tell you but he’s an asshole, so I’m telling you.”

James finds out the hard way that Trevor wasn’t lying about the snowball, because he takes one step outside in a thick jacket and ends up coughing dramatically, shaking snow from the beard he hasn’t bothered to get rid of just yet. “Aleksandr, I’m going to-”

“Big, bad journalist James,” Aleks teases, his laugh cut off midway out of his mouth by Trevor, who splatters him with snow. He stands still, hands outspread in protest, and his eyes closed before he manages to choke out, “You’re a fucking bitch, Trevor!”

The snow falls thick and heavy, nestled softly in their hair and on their clothes, and James ends up covered in more than he had originally anticipated. It helps that Aleks and Trevor are quite a good aim, pelting each other and James with snowballs. He yells in false anger, the edge to his voice gentle enough for Trevor to recognise as such, and he throws a handful of snow at James just because he can. James laughs and splutters, barely able to say, “Trevor!” before he takes another copping of snow, this time from Aleks.

It's then that Aleks, tossing another compact ball of snow between his gloved hands, says, “I was, uh, thinking of moving my shit into Brett's room. Give you guys some space.”

There's a tense quiet as James shakes the white from his face and hair, and looks up through heavily lidded eyes to take in what Aleks said. He's standing beside Trevor shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously, the white in his hair more distinguishable now that it's been a few months since he was last able to dye his hair. Lindsey offered, but he said rather bitterly, though still fond, that she's how he ended up like this in the first place.

“No,” James replies, and his voice is too quiet to justify. Even he talks through it in his head, unable to figure out why Aleks not being part of such a small routine makes his heart speed up in his chest. “... Ein likes you.”

Trevor snorts, in amusement, and Aleks ducks his head with a shy laugh that convinces James that Aleks has no real intention of leaving. He hopes. After these months of being close and sharing this, James can't imagine what it would be like if it were to change; if Trevor were to move rooms, or James was, or if Aleks had the idea planted in his head that he should share with Brett instead. Ein would miss Aleks, she would, and James ignores the voice in his head saying otherwise. That, it's James who would, and not his dog.

“Okay,” Aleks says, and Trevor leans to press his forehead against Aleks’ shoulder. “That settles it, then, I guess. Right, Trev?”

“Yeah,” Trevor muffles into the fabric of Aleks’ jacket. “Can we go inside, dude? I'm cold.”

The sun sets early, taking the light and little warmth it provided with it. Trevor settles on the couch with Asher and Anna, laughing ridiculously hard at something they're saying to him. From outside, Aleks talking beside him, James can't make out their words, but he assumes it's something stupid enough for Trevor to find amusing. Aleks would probably laugh at it, too, if he were there with them; James doesn't want to pretend like he knows that for sure, but he kind of does. Because, he knows Aleks, or this version of Aleks that isn't that criminal he first met. He liked that Aleks, despite the swearing and Russian and gun pointed at James- he likes this one better, though, and he can pinpoint why but he won't try.

“I wouldn't have moved rooms,” Aleks says, and James turns sharply to look at him. His side profile is nice, soft and smooth and bright in the dim light coming from the living room inside; James wants to reach in the small distance between them and remove the eyelash on his cheek, but he knows he won't. “I only really said that because I wanted to know if you wanted me there. With you and Trevor.”

James clears his throat, stretching his fingers out of the fists he had them curled into. He tears his eyes from Aleks and settles them on a dark object in the distance, breath shuddering as he becomes aware of Aleks looking at him. “Dunno how I'd handle the distance,” James says, and it's supposed to be a joke but it doesn't sound like one, and he's not sure if he really meant it as one either.

“James?” Aleks’ voice is deep, more natural, and it's so quietly spoken that James is afraid he imagined it until Aleks says it again.

James moves to look at him, and Aleks is close, like a hand with slender fingers goes to James’ hair, Aleks’ smile more genuine up close. James thinks he's going to make a joke about how messy it is from their earlier snow fight, until Aleks removes his hand and leans forward in one continuous movement that nearly slips James’ attention. Aleks’ lips are soft, barely brushing, and James forgets how he's meant to breathe until Aleks pulls away, head falling into the curve of James’ neck with a breathy laugh.

“I don't-” James tries, and Aleks shifts to press a kiss to James’ jawline.

“Trevor wants this, too,” he whispers, the ghost of his laugh in his voice. “If you want it, James. It's yours.”

“I'll have to think about, man,” James says, his brain short-circuiting as Aleks’ lips against his neck make a mess of him.

Aleks laughs, again, and James falls apart in his hands and his mouth.

.

The sun rises late, the orange of morning enough for James to notice Aleks and Ein are missing. Trevor is awake, barely, and he flickers his eyes open a few times before sighing, James offering a breath of laughter as he shuffles to curl closer to him. Trevor's breath hitches, his body relaxing easily in James’ hands only moments later.

It's nice, to have this one time to themselves, and James buries himself in the heat of their forms together, their stomachs moving at the same time with tired breathing. Trevor's hand is long and straight around his ears, the careful beginnings of facial hair a new sight, and James feels lost for these seconds, unable to do more than stare at Trevor trying to fall back to sleep. It reminds him achingly of Los Santos, the days they shared there together before they ended up here together; a lot has changed, yet somehow them- and _this-_ is the same as it was. The same, and stronger.

“Aleks told me,” Trevor says, startling James back from his own thoughts. “About what happened.”

James’ heart beats a little faster, and he curls his hand in Trevor's shirt where it's around him. “Hmm?”

“If you want it, I want it, James. I want it anyway but only like, if you do. Otherwise this is really fuckin’ awkward and I'm making some pretty big assumptions about who or who you don't want to-”

James rests his forehead against Trevor's shoulder, the skin slightly exposed to the winter air. It's smooth, the splattering of barely-there freckles from the sunlight of Los Santos are visible against his collarbone, and James moves enough to kiss where Trevor's neck meets his shoulder. It's feverishly warm, James’ lips dry from sleep, and he doesn't move from the area when he's finished, just allows himself to keep his head there where it comfortably fits. He doesn't need to say anything to emphasise what he means by it, because Trevor says, “oh,” and it's better than the answer James had expected.

A shaky, nervous, good, “oh,” is better than any simple 'yes.’

.

“I should've told you. That I was leaving and I was with these guys,” Joe says, his eyes anywhere but focused on James. “I thought the note would be enough, that I'd have time to get it all together and you'd be able to find me. I should've just said, you know? I'm sorry.”

James nods, and can't find it in himself to be mad about it anymore.  They've all made mistakes, ones that have had small consequences or ones that had have bigger consequences than they were worth. They're not kids anymore, they're adults who messed up, and James has to admit that he's grateful, in a way, that Joe did what he did. James never would've met Trevor or Aleks otherwise, and he's thankful to have them, and to have the others and Ein. He only ever had Joe before, now they have each other and everyone else.

James can't be mad, only upset, that they almost ruined all these years of friendship by being stupid.

“I get it, man,” James says, and his voice breaks against his will. “And it's good to see you. Never really thought I'd get to even talk to you again, so I'm glad I went to Los Santos. It's a shithole, but it was worth it.”

Joe nods, and James pulls his eyes away from the sight of his friend, standing there unsure with unshed tears crystallising in his eyes. It hurts and it hurts more to think about how easily they could have not had this had they made a number of simple choices that were different to the ones they made. It's lucky, nearly, that things all worked out the way they did like this, when it was so, so spectacularly easy for them to not to.

“Would it be weird if I asked for a hug?” Joe asks, so hopeful that James’ eyes burn as he moves to accept it. Joe's shorter, like when they were teenagers, his arms tight around James as if he's scared of letting go.

“I'm happy you're happy,” Joe says, wet tears sticking James’ shirt to his skin. “With them.”

“Yeah, Joe, me too,” James agrees, and when Joe doesn't make an attempt to move away, he doesn't either.

.

“Dinner?” Lindsey asked two hours ago, so somehow they all end up gathered around the coffee table in the living room. Brett sits with Joe squished next to him, Asher and his boyfriend close next to them, and Anna sits sideways next to Lindsey on a separate part of the couch, her legs stretched across Lindsey's lap. No one has to ask where they're going to sit because there's an unspoken order about it that they unconsciously decided upon, which includes James, Aleks and Trevor sharing the three-sit part of couch that sits opposite the television on the wall.

They don't talk about it or ask, they just know that James sits furthest, Aleks closest and next to where Anna and Lindsey are, and Trevor sits between them, James at one side and Aleks at the other. It happens like that and no one tries to change it; why fix something that's not broken? is what Aleks would probably say, and James smiles to himself at the thought.

“If you had gotten married, I would've been best man, right?” Asher asks, leaning forward, his concern written in his features.

“Obviously it would've been Trevor,” Brett corrects, his tone amused.

“We couldn't agree on who, actually,” Lindsey says. “But, Anna was set on Aleks before he left.”

Aleks laughs, his cheeks tinged red as he glances up from his phone. “When I get married, Anna, you can be my best man.”

Anna grins, wide and pleased, and against Lindsey, who subconsciously leans into her girlfriend's touch. James watches, fond, and can't stop thinking about how he nearly didn't have this; how easily this could've ended badly as he could've ended up without all of this, and it draws him away from the conversation enough to miss Brett sarcastically mention something about always being last choice.

“What about me?” Trevor says, making Aleks turn to look at him, obviously unimpressed. “I'm your best friend!”

Aleks gives him a knowing look, his glance meeting James’ for long enough for James to read the meaning behind it. There's nothing malicious when he says, “You're a fucking moron.”

“I'm a moron? That's fucking rich, Aleks. Wow, nice. 'Moron.’”

The others argue back and forth jokingly, until Trevor is resting tiredly into James’ side and Aleks is announcing loudly that he's tired. James shifts, helping Trevor get up from the couch, and Aleks watches them with a smirk, Trevor awake but exhausted where he leans into James as they walk. They make it back the bedroom together, Aleks opening the door to allow James and Trevor to stumble through, immediately moving to change out of their clothes to go to bed.

Aleks helps James undress and it's intimate in a way James hadn't anticipated, but he doesn't argue against it, and definitely doesn't argue when Aleks catches his lips in a kiss. He's smiling, like he discovered something incredible, and it only gets brighter when suddenly Trevor is there, complaining that he's tired before moving in to kiss Aleks, soft and chaste like they've done it a million times before. 

“I like you,” Trevor says, quiet, his hands fixing Aleks’ hair where he's pushed it into neat spikes atop his head. “Both, really. You guys. A ridiculous, stupid amount, dude.”

“Yeah,” Aleks whispers, staring at James as he pulls at their made bed from earlier that day.

They fall in bed together the way they've done for what seems like forever, a mess of limbs and hastily pressed kisses, and hands that are unsure but learning. The past feels too long ago, in the best possible way, with Aleks pressing a kiss to James’ head and Trevor's hair ticking James’ neck as he receives the warmth of Trevor's presence against his back.

It's all hands and lips and heavy covers, too tired for more than lazy kissing and holding hands and cuddling against one another for the heat. James almost can't believe they've never done this before- they have, they've been falling asleep together for months, just it was never like this, like _boy_ friends more than friends.

“'Night,” Trevor mumbles. “Love you.”

For the actual first time, James meets Aleks’ eyes in the dark, and they say it back in unison; like their mouths were made for it, and not for only saying 'you too,’ the way they've done previous.

James is going to get used to this, and it will last for the rest of whatever lives they live, and he can only hope these things but if you want something to happen, you should speak it into existence. So, he does.

 

.

.

.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a happy ending for my fave boys! i've spent a lot of time debating over whether to put this up or rewrite it but i hope you've enjoyed this! it's been one of my favourite fics to write and i'm very grateful for everyone that's commented or left kudos. i appreciate it a lot, and i'm really happy to have finally finished it! (it's 1am so if there's any typos i apologise!)
> 
> also: this entire thing wouldn't exist without the lumineers and their song 'long way from home'! it inspired all of this and is one of my fave songs, and this fic wouldn't have been the same without it. if you're into that kinda stuff, i highly recommend listening to it.
> 
>  
> 
>  thank you so much!! ♡.
> 
> \- rachel

**Author's Note:**

> this is already almost longer than my other works just in the first chap! the final product isn't too long but there's still a bit of story to work out in it so it'll def end up being my longest work !! i really hope u like it. and, as always, kudos and comments are very appreciated. 
> 
> my tumblr is @ohgavins n spotify w a playlist for this fic is 'akrasias' (#spon)
> 
> \- rachel.


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